


blue orchid

by fleuravis



Series: with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah [8]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Death, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Orgasm, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Minor Character Death, Multi, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Safewords, Self-Harm, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Thumb-sucking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-12 03:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleuravis/pseuds/fleuravis
Summary: The news of Mary Lou's death is unexpected, to say the least.After his mother's death, Credence spirals. As much as Percy wants to, he doesn't quite know how to help him.--(updating mondays, wednesdays and fridays)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i just want to place a warning here at the very beginning that this work is very dark and deals with some difficult subject matter. i'll put more specific warnings on the chapters that contain anything touchy.
> 
> thank you for sticking with this story. the end of the entire series is approaching and i can't wait to share it with you all. <3

When Credence was two years old, his parents were killed in a car accident while he slept peacefully at home, under the watch of his kind-eyed babysitter. He doesn’t remember them, he was far too young, but sometimes he wishes he did. He tries not to think about it too much. Ma adopted him from the orphanage when he was four years old. He still had yet to speak a single word.

Ma tried to beat it out of him, oh, of course she did. Tried to starve him until he spoke. Hit him upside the head, smacked him with a newspaper.

_Idiot boy. They didn’t tell me you were slow. I should bring you right back to the orphanage._

In school he simply stared. Other children laughed and pointed, got in his face, taunted him. _Aren’t ya gonna say something? Huh? Freak?_ How children so young can be so cruel, Credence still doesn’t know. Teachers murmured to each other, staring at him, trying to be discreet. They would ask gentle questions until they became frustrated with his lack of vocalization. They gave up.

One night, when Credence was six, he slipped on the icy church steps as he, Chastity and Ma were heading towards the house. He face-planted on the slushy concrete, bits of gravel stuck to his baby-soft cheek, an angry red scrape on his gumball chin. For the first time since her facade at the orphanage, Ma showed him the one thing he’d been desperate for all along: kindness.

“Credence!” She pulled him up by the arm and ran a hand down the side of his face. He looked at her, round-eyed and aching.

“Mama.”

She smiled then, a small and fleeting thing, but it was enough. Enough to pull Credence through nineteen years of abuse and neglect, a lifetime of trauma and pain, all for the hope that someday she would smile at him again. He held on to that single moment of kindness, that one beacon of light from a distant shore as he suffered through tumultuous seas, a rough and tumble childhood beyond horseplay of neighbourhood kids, beyond the _boys will be boys_ violence in hallways and on playgrounds. He could never hate Ma. He could resent her, certainly; he could lament her punishments and cower from the very thought of her, but he could never hate her.

_I’m proud of you._

Four words that knocked him right on his ass, that shattered the protective shield he’d managed to build since leaving home. Since leaving the church. And it doesn’t matter, Percy told him that. No words she says to him will ever make up for the abuse, for the torture, for the neglect and the heartbreak and the everything. But still, it matters. 

The news of Mary Lou’s death is unexpected, to say the least.

The phone call comes early one morning when Credence is slicing cremini mushrooms into slivers at the kitchen counter, a pan of vegetables already sizzling loud and bright next to the scrambled eggs. Percy’s in the bathroom with the door half-open, bent over the sink with a razor at his cheek.

Credence will remember these details for much longer than seems necessary.

“Hello?” He balances the phone between his ear and shoulder, head tilted, scraping the pile of mushrooms from the cutting board into the pan. 

“Good morning, Credence.” It’s Chastity. He hasn’t heard her voice since… well. Chastity married off as soon as she turned twenty, Ma’s approval stamped bold-print on the son of a longtime member of the church. Her usual curt tone sounds forced, wavering slightly.

“Hi, Chastity,” he says, not bothering to conceal his surprise. “What’s going on?”

“You should know that…” She breathes in, out. Slowly. “You should know that our mother has passed away.”

He drops the knife he’s holding. It clatters to the floor, endless clanging like it’s caught in a loop. Hitting the shiny white tiles over and over again. Percy pokes his head out from the bathroom door. _Everything okay?_ Credence barely hears his voice. One hand grips the edge of the counter, white-knuckled, tiny toast-crumbs sticking to his clammy fingertips.

“Credence?”

_Credence?_

Both of them, calling his name. Speak. Speak. _Speak._

He’s four years old again, standing alone on the sun-bleached concrete of his kindergarten playground, James Duncan’s face too close to his, laughing, taunting, a semi-circle of stubby-fingered followers standing behind their ringleader. _Speak._ He’s five years old, so hungry his throat aches, no food for days, Ma staring him down, cold and righteous and larger than life. _Speak._ He’s six years old and he’s tumbling down on skinny legs, bundled up in his puffy winter coat, face first in slush and gravel, pinpricks on his face, daggers in his palms and then he’s being lifted, he’s being _touched_ , he’s being looked at. Seen. _Mama_. He’s twenty one and he’s graduating, he’s finally done something to make himself worthy, he’s real and he’s not stupid and he has proof of that now — I’m proud of you. _I’m proud of you._

_Mama._

A heart attack, Chastity is saying. She adds cruelly that it must have been the stress of running that church all by herself. Her voice is cold. Accusing. As if she didn’t leave too. Credence doesn’t respond. He can’t make himself say much of anything.

He hangs up the phone. Slowly reaches over and turns off the stove, neatly serving the fried vegetables and eggs on a plate for Percy, setting it down at his place at the table.

“Credence?” He sounds alarmed, but it’s all very distant. Credence feels like he’s floating. He pours Percy’s coffee and sets it down next to the plate. And then he walks over to the bedroom and quietly shuts the door.

 

——

 

Credence sits still for a very long time.

The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled and the duvet a navy mound in the corner. He doesn’t bother to fix it, just sits against the headboard, back straight, staring dead-eyed into the off-white wall. He can’t decide how he feels or how he’s supposed to feel. He’s certain that the two aren’t congruent. They never are, about anything. He tries to think of facts, only facts, to keep himself calm. 

Ma is dead. That he knows for sure, because Chastity would not invent such stories, much less call him about it. No, she is certainly dead.

Modesty is twelve, meaning she can’t live on her own, meaning he needs to make sure she has somewhere to go. Maybe she can live with him. It’s a stupid thought.

Ma was mean. He can contend with that. She was mean and she was cold, she tormented him for many years. That is a fact.

“Credence?”

Percy is knocking on the door. Credence doesn’t move, stays very still, as if Percy might believe he isn’t there. It doesn’t work, of course.

“Credence, can I come in?”

He doesn’t respond but the door opens anyway, slow and tentative. Percy, in boxers and a worn out tee shirt, hair damp and sticking to his temples. Percy, warm and full of light. Percy, who will give him what he needs but will never understand. He’s been trying so hard, he’s been doing so well, he’s been so kind and soft with Credence, and yet still there’s a wall. It’s transparent, and it’s so thin, but it’s always there.

Percy makes his way over to the bed, cautious, as if Credence is a wild animal who might rear back and attack him at any given moment. He sits down, the mattress dipping under his weight, inches away from the bony edges of Credence’s bare knee.

“Credence, baby.” Percy’s hand is on him, on his shin and then his thigh, and then his arm and then his shoulder and then his face, from spot to spot as if it’s moving in a stop motion of still images. Credence can’t focus hard enough to follow the movements in between. “I saw a text on your phone from your sister.”

So he knows. He’s probably confused; he probably thinks Credence should be happy, should be celebrating the end of the woman who tried to break him for nineteen years. A weight lifted. Really, it should be. But it isn’t.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” The words are a surprise, Percy’s voice soft and sad, eyes pleading. _Speak._ Credence can see the man’s expression in his peripheral, his own eyes still glued to the wall, unable to tear them away. Percy loves his mother. He knows this. Percy’s mother never whipped him or belittled him or starved him. He knows this, too.

He can’t open his mouth, can’t force his tongue and lips to move and form words. He keels over slowly, sinking into Percy’s waiting lap. Percy welcomes him silently, makes no sudden movements, no sound. Wraps his arms around Credence’s upper half and holds him there, rocking slowly. 

Credence shudders through half-formed sobs, blinking in wait of tears that won’t come.

 

——

 

Credence doesn’t speak for three days.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He isn’t trying to be difficult, or stubborn or obtuse; he wishes he could put words to how he feels, or how he doesn’t feel. He wishes he could thank Percy for the blankets he’s wrapped in, for the bottomless mugs of hot cocoa placed gently into his shaking hands, for the man’s warm and comforting form enfolding him nearly all hours of the day. He wishes he could offer an explanation or an excuse. He wishes he could answer the phone when Chastity calls, again and again. He knows there are decisions to be made. Things to be settled. All he has to do is give Percy a pleading look and the man just shushes him, pulling him closer and tapping at Credence’s phone screen to call Chastity back. 

Credence can barely understand the murmured phone conversation, as if it’s in a foreign language. He picks out words here and there — _difficult, having a hard time, will, church, Modesty…_ Modesty. Credence’s chest aches at the thought of her. And so in that moment, on the third day, he speaks for the first time. A quiet and trembling syllable, a question, eyes fixed on Percy who looks back at him, one hand running a comforting track down his spine and the other holding Credence’s phone to his ear.

“Safe?”

Percy nods. “Your sisters are together. They’re at Chastity’s place. Modesty is going to stay there with her, at least for now.”

Credence’s breath comes out in a relieved sigh and he burrows into Percy’s chest, the conversation between his sister and his lover fading back into oblivion. When he hangs up, Percy doesn’t bombard him with questions or information, doesn’t try to coax him to speak again. He doesn’t say a word. He just wraps Credence up tighter in his arms, pulling him impossibly close against his body. Credence falls asleep that way, breath an airy whistle through his tight throat, heartbeat knocking at his chest like an officer coming to break the news.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted a little early due to my busy day tomorrow! 
> 
> warning for dubious consent in this chapter. for more details check the end notes.

Graves accepts a mug of coffee from Newt as he sinks down into the couch in the living room of his and Tina’s apartment. He keeps his phone clutched tightly in his hand, still checking the screen every few seconds as if he could have possibly missed a call from Credence.

It’s been a week and Graves was still wary to leave him on his own, hyperaware of every tremble in his hand, every too-fast blink of his eyes. Credence had settled down for a nap, though, and Graves had told him to text or call and he’d come home right away.

_I’m okay,_ the boy had murmured. _Don’t worry about me._

Graves finds it impossible not to, these days.

Credence is twenty three, but since he answered that phone call, he hasn’t looked much like twenty three at all. He looks lost. He looks like a scared little boy, a small ghost floating through the house, and Graves can’t reach him. His hand goes right through like smoke.

“I’m sorry to hear about Credence’s mother?” It comes out as a question, Newt wincing a little bit at the end. Graves huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, I don’t know how to feel. She was awful, we all know that. He’s really… really messed up about it, though.”

“Mm.” Newt takes a sip of his tea, glances out the window where the late-February snow is falling in slow motion, blanketing the afternoon in a soft feathery white. “She was his mother, for better or for worse. I’m sure there were good days, or at least days that weren’t so bad. Abuse is a cycle, right? There are always reasons that people stay.”

“He never _told_ me anything,” Graves says, frustrated. “I mean, I got the bare minimum. Little pieces here and there. You know how he answers questions without really answering. He never told me about the good days. If there were any, I mean.”

Newt shrugs. “Even so, losing a parent isn’t easy. He’s probably confused. Doesn’t know what he should be feeling.”

“He’s… regressing.” Graves doesn’t know how to put it. Google searches have done nothing but send him into a spiral of concern verging on panic until he shuts the browser window and clears his history. “I dunno, Newt. He wouldn’t talk for days after he found out. Not a single word. And he’s so anxious all the time, even more than before. He dropped a plate yesterday and just started _crying._ Like, uncontrollable fucking crying.”

“He’s sensitive,” Newt starts. “He’s just…”

“He’s regressing,” Graves repeats. “Newt, he’s like a child. I’m afraid to say anything, I’m afraid to touch him.”

“We all cope in strange and wildly different ways,” Newt says firmly. “I don’t think you should be too worried about all this. It’s normal, although I know that their relationship wasn’t. I met the woman — I can begin to chance a guess at what she’s like. But she was his mother, and he’s Credence, he’s sensitive. He just needs some time and for us all to support him.”

Graves sighs and finishes his coffee in one long gulp. The door clicks open and Tina comes in, hair damp with melted snow. 

“Oh! Sorry, hey, Perce. How’s Credence doing?”

“Not so great. He’s having a real hard time.”

“Poor kid,” she says sympathetically. “Bring him around here sometime, we’ll try to cheer him up.”

“We’ll have to start rehearsing soon anyway, right?” In this week of eggshell-walking Graves nearly forgot about the show they have coming up: Radio City Music Hall, one of their biggest shows yet, and the last one within their record contract. After that, it’s up in the air whether they’ll sign back on to Republic or move on to something new. Graves has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that it’s almost been four years since they first signed.

Since then, Credence has officially moved in with him, they’ve released two records, been on several tours, Tina and Newt are _married_ , Credence graduated Ilvermorny… as much as it’s flown by, it feels like this is the only life he’s known. 

“Yeah, we’ve got a few weeks still,” Newt says gently. “I don’t think we need that much practice. He can take as much time as he needs.”

Graves nods, getting up and pulling his coat back on. “Thanks, guys. I’ll text you and let you know how he’s doing. Maybe we’ll come by for dinner sometime. Or we can all go out somewhere.”

“Please let us know,” Tina calls after him as he steps out the door.

 

——

 

Credence is asleep when Graves gets home. He moves silently through the apartment so as not to wake him, hanging his coat and lining his boots up on the mat, snow slowly melting onto the rubber. The door creaks slightly when he steps into the bedroom but Credence does not stir.

Graves pads over to the bed and sits delicately on his side of the mattress, taking in the image before him: Credence, curled up on his side, dark eyelashes stark against his pale cheekbones, the thumb of his right hand tucked between plush pink lips. Suckling slowly.

He sighs and rubs at his temples, his eyes, the bridge of his nose. He looks back at Credence, so peaceful and soft, the afternoon light casting fuzzy shadows on his serene face. His bare back. He reaches over and gently tugs Credence’s thumb from his mouth, enfolding the boy’s smaller hand in his own for a moment before smoothing it down against the bed. Credence shifts, expression pinching, the peaceful contentment gone from his face. Graves leans in and kisses his cheek and Credence’s eyes open.

“Hello,” Graves says quietly, kissing the corner of the boy’s half-open mouth. “Sorry for waking you.”

“S’okay,” Credence mumbles, stretching and then rolling over partway into Graves’ lap, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. “How’s Newt?”

“He’s good. I saw Tina too. They want us to come over for dinner sometime.”

“Mm.” The boy neither accepts nor declines the invitation. He runs one pale hand up and down Graves’ thigh, eyes half-open, staring blankly. Graves feels uneasy and not very eager to take him right now — he seems so fragile. Breakable. Graves knows Credence will hate it if he says that out loud but he can’t help it, can’t help feeling like by touching Credence in any intimate way right now he’s taking advantage of him.

He also knows that Credence is feeling very lost, very confused and alone, and that he has to do what it takes to make him feel any small bit better.

He lets his hand fall onto Credence’s bare back, the skin a little sticky with mid-afternoon sweat, a two-hour nap bundled in thick blankets. He trails his fingertips up the prominent bones of his spine, a ladder of vertebrae, closing his hand around Credence’s nape and squeezing gently. Credence shakes under his touch, breathing loud and slow, turning his face into Graves’ lap. Mouthing at him through his pants. It’s obscene and enthralling.

Graves shifts to sit back against the headboard and pulls Credence with him by the back of the neck, keeping the boy’s face pressed into his inner thigh. Credence’s eyes are thin slits, lips parted. He doesn’t look up at Graves. He doesn’t seem to be looking at anything at all.

“Here, baby.” Graves unzips his pants with one hand, keeping Credence fixed with the other, pulling out his half-hard cock. His hand trails up to clutch a handful of the boy’s hair while the other clasps his jaw, one thumb on his bottom lip, opening his mouth fully. Credence complies, letting himself be moved into place.

Just as he’s about to push his cock past Credence’s damp lips he says, “Safe word, honey.” A reminder. A reassurance.

“Orchid,” Credence responds, voice low and scratchy. He still doesn’t look up.

_At least he remembers. At least he’s here, not floating away._

Graves tells himself that as he guides him cock into Credence’s waiting mouth, letting out a sigh of relief at the feeling. He goes deep, practically bottoming out, the wet heat of Credence’s throat surrounding him and making him want to roll his eyes back with pleasure. 

“So good, puppy,” he murmurs, petting the boy’s hair. “You’re being so good.”

Credence hums around him, the words seeming to comfort him and he finally begins to move of his own accord, pulling off and then taking him down again. Graves’ hand falls onto the bed and he tips his head back, letting the boy go to work, lifting his hips up into the searing heat of his mouth.

When he’s halfway to coming Credence pulls off completely, propping himself up on his hands and knees, looking at Graves through hooded eyes. “Will you fuck me?”

Graves tries his best to put his apprehension aside when he flips Credence onto his belly and gets to work preparing him, two slick fingers rubbing his soft insides, making him twitch against the mattress, cock leaking. Face down, Graves won’t have to feel as guilty at the vacant look on the boy’s face. 

_I am not a good man._

When Credence is stretched and ready Graves lines up, keeping a comforting hand on the boy’s back. Credence is usually so loud, so vocal, babbling and begging, but today he barely makes a sound. Graves pushes in, bottoms out, and the boy just jerks beneath him, a rattling gasp silenced against the bed. One hand clutching at the bunched-up sheets next to his head. Eyes squeezed shut. 

Graves closes his eyes as well and presses his lips to Credence’s shoulder, starting to move, to thrust into him slowly and carefully. Credence makes one whimpering sound when Graves hits his prostate and he angles himself, pushing at that spot again and again, the boy shuddering beneath him. He comes hard, sinking in impossibly deeper, pulsing out his release inside of Credence. He pulls out gingerly and flips him over. His eyes are closed, tears staining the sides of his cheeks, cock still hard and curved up against his belly. 

Graves kisses his cheek and takes him in hand, pulling in long, lazy strokes, just the way Credence likes it best. He squirms and makes breathy little noises but after ten minutes he still hasn’t come. Strange, for Credence, who’s spent the past four years humiliated by his prematurity, his quick submission to pleasure, his inability to control himself. Graves wraps his hand tighter, tugs faster.

“Does it feel good, baby?” He asks, lips against Credence’s throat.

Credence whines softly. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean?” Graves pulls his face back to look at him, his hand slowing but still moving gently, rhythmic.

“I can’t come.”

Credence twists out of Graves’ grasp and turns away from him, curling up. His shoulders trembling. Graves tries to grab him around the middle, pull him close, but Credence resists, burrowing into the blankets and not budging.

“Credence,” he sighs.

“I’m sorry," Credence whimpers, voice muffled in the duvet. 

“Pup- _py_ ,” Graves says, his voice a playful singsong, drawn out into two bright syllables. “Don’t be like that. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Graves huffs out a breath, pulling him forcibly away from his haven of blankets, squeezing him tight. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Hey, this is a good thing, right? You’re always complaining about being too fast.”

Credence twists in his arms to face him, glaring. “Mean.”

Graves laughs and kisses his cheekbone. “I’m sorry. Let’s take a bath.”

And so they do, the same way they did that night at the end of their very first tour. Credence’s back to Graves’ chest, head lolling onto his shoulder, mounds of bubbles concealing the intimacy of it, Credence snuggled up between Graves’ legs. He’s still hard and straining. Graves murmurs soothing words against his ear, fingertips rolling his nipples slowly and gently, the pointed nubs standing out pinkish red in stark relief to the boy’s pale chest. Credence is sensitive, whining, face turned into Graves' jaw. 

“You’re such a good boy, Credence,” he says in a low voice, continuing to play relentlessly with the boy’s chest. He presses his fingernails sharp into Credence’s nipples and Credence hisses at the sting. “I bet you could come for me just like this. Think you can, baby?”

He does seem awfully close. Squirming and gasping, his nipples red and swollen, begging for relief. His poor, neglected cock hard beneath the bubbly water. Graves brushes it with one fingertip and Credence moans.

Graves finally reaches down and starts to stroke him, still whispering words of praise into Credence’s neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin there. Credence shakes and whimpers and lifts his hips into the older man’s hand but it’s in vain; he can’t come. Graves spends more than an hour taking him apart, trying every trick he knows the boy likes, doing his best not to push him to the point of pain. But the bath water goes cold and Credence is tired. Graves’ wrist aches and the cock in his hand is red and chafed and Credence jerks at the slightest touch.

“Hurts, Percy,” he whimpers. Graves sighs into his hair. 

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for dubious consent - credence consents verbally and is not intoxicated but he's mentally/emotionally compromised and the whole thing is just a little... yikes
> 
> this was very sad for me to write but credence's sexual dysfunction is an important part of this story and sighhh sometimes the characters we love just have to suffer
> 
> love you all. <3


	3. Chapter 3

Credence feels heavy with dread as he climbs the steps up to Chastity’s new home. It’s a duplex tucked into a quiet burrow outside of the city, a Victorian house with neatly potted plants lining the windowsills, vines growing around the porch. There’s a car in the driveway, small and unpretentious. The curtains are drawn.

She answers the door with a tight-lipped smile and an extremely uncomfortable hug that feels more like a concession than an actual display of affection. “Hello, Credence.”

He has trouble making his voice work so he just nods jerkily, keeping his eyes on the floor. The inside of the house is tidy and opaque, no posters on the wall, no little signs of life on tables or cabinets. Just as he’d expected, really.

A man appears from the other room, tall and plain. “Nice to meet you, Credence. I’m Oliver.”

Credence shakes his hand and then turns back to Chastity. “Where’s Modesty?”

“Eating lunch in the kitchen. Before you see her, we need to discuss some arrangements.”

“Okay.” His voice is weak and pitiful. He won’t have it in him to put up a fight, he knows that. Whatever Chastity says goes. He suddenly regrets his firm refusal of Percy’s company on this venture — he hadn’t wanted to seem to Chastity like he couldn’t make his own decisions, like he had to bring his older and smarter boyfriend with him to help, so co-dependent, so pathetic. He realizes now that he doesn’t care what she thinks. He wants Percy at his side, hand on his waist, reassuring voice saying all the things he can’t bring himself to say.

Chastity beckons him into the living room where he sits on a grey couch, surveying the unassuming room. There’s some generic art framed above the fireplace, a vase of flowers on the table. That’s about it.

“In Mother’s will, I was left as Modesty’s guardian,” Chastity begins, that familiar haughtiness lifting her voice, chin held high. “ _Obviously._ ” 

That word, that jab, hits Credence hard. Chastity misses no opportunity to point out his inadequacies, to twist the knife into his softest spots, the places that really hurt. He’s tried his best for Modesty. She knows he has.

“Anyway,” she continues, apparently satisfied with his crestfallen expression, “Modesty will live here with me for the time being. You can see her whenever you’d like, but you will have to see her in this house. I don’t want her being exposed to your… lifestyle.”

Credence’s ears are ringing. He feels anger welling up inside and it makes his fingers shake. He clenches them at his sides. “By my _lifestyle_ do you mean my career or my choice of partner?”

“Both,” Chastity says bluntly, “are distasteful to me.”

Credence shakes his head. “You’re hateful, Chastity.” He wants to say more but he can’t make his brain work, can’t bring forth any rational retort. 

“Mother didn’t leave you any of her estate, so there’s no need for this to be a long meeting,” she says, and he can see how pleased she is about that. He doesn’t care. The smallest, pettiest part of himself wants to remind her that he has more money than she will likely ever see. “I am to take over the church with Oliver when we feel ready. I doubt that I’ll be seeing you there, now that you’ve committed to your Godless lifestyle.”

“Mm,” he acknowledges, not even taking in what she’s saying. “Anything else?”

“I wanna live with Credence,” says a small voice from the doorway. His eyes dart over to see Modesty, shrunken against the doorframe, peering in nervously.

“That is out of the question, Modesty,” Chastity says firmly. “You can see him when he comes to visit.”

“I wanna go to Credence’s house,” she bites back, anger flashing in her bright little eyes. “I wanna stay with Credence and Percy."

“Go back to your room,” Oliver interjects.

Credence is on his feet immediately, head swimming, trying to keep his balance. “Don’t talk to her like that. You aren’t her father.”

“He might as well be,” Chastity hisses. “By law, he is her guardian. You have no say in this. Take what you’re offered or you won’t see her at all, you ungrateful brat.”

“ _I wanna live with Credence!_ ” Modesty is shouting now, stamping her feet, the picture of a childish tantrum, tears streaking her rosy cheeks. “I don’t _wanna_ live here!”

Oliver strides across the room and grabs her by the wrist, pushing her into the hallway. “Back to your room, Modesty.”

“Don’t _fucking_ touch her!” Credence seethes, lunging at him. Chastity shrieks as Credence’s balled up fist connects with Oliver’s face, sending him reeling back, Modesty ducking into the hallway. Oliver clutches his face, staring at Credence with a terrifying calm. Credence backs up, shaking off his hand, head spinning so fast he isn’t sure he’ll be upright for much longer. 

Modesty is crying, hiding out in the hallway, and oh God, he scared her, why did he do that…

“I’m calling the police!” Chastity announces, and Credence spins on his heel.

“You aren’t calling the police,” he mumbles. “I’ll leave. But you aren’t keeping my little sister away from me.”

“You’re violent, Credence,” Chastity says, and it's a ghost of Ma's triumphant tone, the voice that would emerge any time Credence reacted to her abuse, any time he voiced his suffering and she swiftly claimed the upper hand. “You aren’t fit to care for her. And neither is your… your _boyfriend_.” There is such bitterness in her tone that Credence thinks the word itself must bring a bad taste to her mouth, her lips pursing, eyes narrowing.

Credence drops to his knees where Modesty stands, four foot three, always small for her age. She’s glazed with defiance but her face softens a little when he moves in close, inches away, hands moving up to hold onto her elbows with gentle reassurance.

“You can’t live with me, bug,” he says sadly. “I have to travel so much for my job. I have to go on tour, remember? It wouldn’t be fair to you. But I’m going to visit you all the time, and I’m going to take you out for burgers and ice cream, and you can come over to my house whenever you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says timidly, and then surges into his arms, squeezing him tight around the middle. “Love you, Credence.”

“I love you too.” He stands and faces Chastity and Oliver. “I’ll be in touch.” As he walks out the door, Chastity following to close it behind him, he turns and quietly adds: “I know that I’m weak. And I know that you think I’m dumb. But I love Modesty more than anything in the world and I will not let you take her away from me.”

And then he turns, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark denim jacket, heading back to the main road to catch a taxi home.

 

——

 

Credence is dreaming. Lately his dreams haven’t been pleasant, no more melted-sugar sweetness, no more fantasies of comforting warmth with Percy pressed to his back. He’s been flipping through nightmares, memories of Ma haunting and terrorizing him, recurring scenes of violence and blood. Darkness and fear rip him from his sleep every hour and leave him breathless and gasping, Percy waking groggily and trying to calm him down. There’s one that he keeps having, nearly every night.

_He’s walking through the hallway of the old house, trying to find Ma, but all the doors are locked. He’s calling for her, his voice sounding like a child’s, trembling and high. He’s knocking on the doors, trying to turn the knobs but he can’t make his hands work. The last door he opens and Percy is there, holding his belt, turning it over in his hand. Watching him. He tries to speak but he can only mouth the words, his voice box useless, choking out nothing but air. Percy stares at him with darkened eyes, the intensity that makes him quiver, except it’s emotionless._

_“Please,” he finally says, and his hands float out before him, not of his own accord. Palms up. Muscle memory._

_“Please,” he begs again, and he can’t feel his legs. He’s floating, and the room is going dark around the edges, a sickening vignette, details falling away as Credence’s vision tunnels on Percy’s face. And then Percy is hitting him hard across the hands, the belt breaking skin, and his hands don’t look real anymore, they look blurry and dark red. It doesn’t hurt. It feels good. Credence moans, feeling hot and sticky and wet inside. Percy keeps whipping him viciously but his face doesn’t move, set straight and impassive._

_“I love you, Credence,” he says, but his voice sounds different._

“Credence?”

_“Credence?”_

He wakes with a start, mid-whimper, eyes opening only halfway. There’s something in his mouth and he realizes that it’s his own thumb. He’s sucking on it softly, lips damp with spit. He’s on his side but his hips are pointed down, thrusting into the sheets, his dick smearing wetness through the thin fabric of his underwear. Percy is laying beside him, watching him with distant curiosity, a bit of sadness. He reaches out and tugs Credence’s thumb from his mouth. Credence’s face burns. _Baby._

Percy nudges Credence’s hand aside and gently pushes his own thumb past the boy’s lips. The rest of his fingers cradle Credence’s jaw, his thumb slipping deeper into his mouth. Credence’s eyes close with relief, with comfort. He starts sucking slowly again, still trembling with fear and shock from the dream, but desperately aroused. 

“You’re so hard, baby,” Percy says, voice a little awed, reaching down with his other hand to cup Credence through his briefs. He groans at the slickness. “So wet, baby, like a fuckin’ girl.”

Credence moans loudly at the contact, rubbing shamelessly into Percy’s hand, not even registering the humiliation of the man’s words. He doesn’t care. He just wants to come. It’s been so long, nearly a month, each time without release building up inside him like something malignant, a dull ache buried so deep he can’t reach it.

But this, this half-awake motion, this hot-sweet fever dream, it burns him from the inside out. He sucks desperately at Percy’s thumb, eyes fluttering closed, pushing into his hand, too far gone to feel embarrassed. It’s filthy, it’s obscene. It’s sacred. 

He tries to focus on reality, on the weight of Percy’s hand against him, the warmth of the man’s body, the sound of his slow breath. But he can’t keep himself grounded, his mind constantly barraged with images from his dreams, these tableaus of violence, Percy beating him with the belt, calm and contained while Credence breaks under his ministrations. It’s the only thing that keeps him hard.

Percy reaches a hand into his underwear, not even bothering to pull them down, his palm getting slick with Credence’s precum and sweat as he starts to stroke him, slow tugging motions, Credence whimpering around the digit still buried in his mouth.

Like every time, though, it builds and builds and suddenly his body shuts down. The heat is gone, replaced with an iciness, a sick feeling, like nausea except it’s not just his head, it’s his whole body. It’s everything. Percy keeps pulling at him, pushing his thumb deeper, desperate, but Credence’s head lolls. His body goes limp.

“Baby?” Percy whispers, and Credence has never heard him sound so uncertain.

Credence just shakes his head and squirms away, urging Percy’s hand out from between his legs, turning onto his side. He screws up his face in pain, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing hard. A pounding in his head, a twisting in his belly. He just wants to sleep, wants to be dreamless and still. Comatose, maybe. The thought is appealing.

He curls up, sticking his own thumb back in his mouth and trying to relax. There’s no space for shame anymore, nothing matters anyway. He just wants to be comfortable. He just wants to feel good. Those things have always seemed like far too much to ask.

Percy reaches over and tugs at his hand, pulling his thumb from between his lips with a frustrated sigh. Credence whines, trying to fold himself up, out of Percy’s sight. Can’t he just leave him alone? Can’t he just let him have this one thing, this one tiny thing that makes him feel better?

“Credence,” Percy says in a warning tone, one firm hand grasping his shoulder and rolling him onto his back.

“Percy, _please_ ,” he whimpers. He’s so tired. He just wants to sleep. He just wants to be alone.

“What’s wrong with you, puppy?” Percy says, and he’s trying to keep his tone light, trying not to be accusatory, but Credence can hear the irritation laced into his voice. This isn’t just hurting Credence, it’s hurting Percy too. Credence can’t be useful, can’t be good company or a productive partner. He can’t be anything.

“Lemme sleep,” he begs, voice slurred with exhaustion. “Please, Percy, I can’t talk, I just need to sleep.”

“Fuck. Fine.” The kindness is gone, Percy’s hand is gone, and Credence hears the door slam behind him. He shudders out a sob, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, tickling his nose as they trail down and into the plush pillow beneath his head. He squeezes his thighs together, pushes his thumb back between his lips, and falls into sleep.

 

——

 

When Credence finally gets out of bed at nearly two in the afternoon, Percy doesn’t speak to him. He pads timidly through the kitchen, sipping a glass of water, puttering around uselessly while Percy sits stone-still on the couch, eyes fixed on his laptop. 

“Do you need something, Credence?” He says finally, voice woven with annoyance, after several minutes of Credence’s loitering.

He shakes his head, mute, staring at the floor. Wringing his hands. Forcing back the tears that threaten to spring forward.

Percy sighs, closing his laptop. “We have a show coming up. Can you play?”

“Of course,” Credence says defensively, voice cracking a little. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don't know, because you don’t seem to be able to do anything anymore.” It’s mean, and it stings when he says it. Credence swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Percy looks up at him, expression softening a little, regret lacing with the exhaustion in his eyes. 

“C’mere, puppy,” he says quietly, opening his arms and letting Credence clamber onto the couch with him, folded into his lap, head rested on one broad shoulder. “You know I’m just worried, right? I want you to be okay. I don’t want you to fall back into these… unhealthy ways of coping.”

Credence’s mind fills with still images from his dreams, Percy’s face set straight and emotionless, the belt coming down on his hands, blood and sweetness everywhere. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t push the thoughts away. He keeps his mouth shut, terrified that if he opens it the words will come pouring out and all will be lost for good.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEAVY warnings for this chapter. graphic violence + abuse. check the end notes for more details (spoiler version, basically)  
> this chapter is very long and very sad. it is not fun or happy so if you want to skip it, i'll put a more detailed recap with the next chapter.
> 
> if you want to avoid the dark parts, stop reading at: “It is a Thursday evening when Credence comes to him.”  
> stay safe <3

By the time Macusa is able to practice, there’s only time for one session before the show. They blow through their set quickly and Graves can’t help but notice every slip of Credence’s hand, every moment he zones out and misses a chord change, that persistent glazed look taking over his face. He doesn’t make any comments, because it’s not like they sound _bad_ , but there’s an undeniable difference in Credence’s playing.

When they’ve finished packing up, Graves sends Credence out to wait in the car while he talks to Newt, an opportunity presenting itself when Tina has to step outside to take a call from Queenie. Newt looks rather alarmed.

“He’s not a little kid, Perce. You can’t just… order him around like that.”

“Sure as hell likes to act like one,” Graves mutters. “Listen, Newt, I need to talk to you about something. Between the two of us.”

“Yeah, what is it?” Graves knows that Newt already has a decent idea of what this is about, but it still isn't easy to say. Before he manages get the words out, the door opens and Tina comes in. He trusts her, of course he does, but he isn’t ready to get into it with her. She worries far too much about Credence, somehow even more than Newt does.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he says hastily and waves his goodbye, heading out to where Credence waits dutifully in the passenger seat.

They drive home in silence, and just as they’re pulling up outside the apartment Credence blurts out, “I’m sorry I wasn’t good today. I promise I’ll do better at the show.”

Graves frowns. “You were fine, baby. Don’t stress about it. We all have our off days.”

He can see the pleading undertone in Credence’s face telling him _this is not an off day, this is not an off week, I don’t know what I’m doing._ He ignores it for now. They’ll get through this show, and then he’ll figure it out.

 

———

 

Getting through the show, however, turns out to be less of an easy feat than he’d envisioned. The place is packed wall to wall, tickets having sold out in a matter of hours. An up-and-coming New York band called Mudblood opens for them, made up of a bunch of high school graduates, not even legal to drink yet. Graves feels bitter at the sight of them, talented and well-rehearsed and endlessly energetic. It makes him feel old. He remembers when Macusa were the bright young things of Manhattan; the novelty has worn off and the gimmick of Credence’s age has long since dried up now that he’s twenty three. 

Everything has been going wrong. A cord shorted out at soundcheck and Newt had to run home to get another one, because apparently no one at the venue has a fucking quarter inch. The sound guy was pissed, and the last person on earth Graves ever wants to piss off is a sound guy. Credence is anxious, of course, because he always is. Tina is on edge. Langdon is there, and he hasn’t been to one of their shows in ages — he’s about to get a nasty surprise and most likely make up his mind about whether or not he wants to sign them on for another term.

It’s up to them, he’d said, but Graves wants to tell him to cut his losses. Stop milking it. It’s clearly over. He feels washed up, like they’ve been holding on way too long, trying to drink from an empty cup. He won’t say these things to Tina and Newt, but he knows that deep down they feel it too.

They make it through most of the set without fucking up too badly. There are slips, but nothing noticeable, though Graves can see the tension building in Credence’s body. He’s not as tight as he usually is, hands trembling. Chewing on his lip. He doesn't look up into the crowd once, letting his hair fall into his eyes, ignoring every shout of his name from the audience. When he gets like this he doesn’t hear anything, Graves knows that.

They go into their last song — or, what they claim to be their last song, though everybody knows they’ll be back out for an encore. It’s a new one, taken from their last record, one that fans have been constantly begging them to play through caps-lock comments and emails. They've only played it live a handful of times but it always sounds decent at practice.

They’re about to break into the second chorus, where it builds into a cinematic explosion of sound, when Credence panics.

Something is off — maybe he hits the wrong chord, maybe there’s something wrong with his guitar. But he stops. Graves sees his hands twitching and he looks up for a single moment, terror in his eyes, before struggling to get the guitar off of his body, setting it on the stand and stumbling off the stage.

Tina keeps playing but shoots Graves a panicked look. Newt skips the first line of the chorus to mouth _w_ _hat?_ but then goes back into it. It sounds a little ridiculous without the guitar, the most important part, Credence’s usual performance shining brightly above the rest of the instruments. They cut the song off early, ending after that chorus and not even attempting the bridge. 

“Thank you!” Newt calls, the enthusiasm in his voice sounding painfully forced. “Have a great night, everyone!”

The sound guy, expecting an encore, leaves all their instruments on and starts the low soundtrack that they leave playing to keep fans waiting for them. Graves all but runs off the stage, stampeding down the stairs to the backstage room and swinging the door open to find Credence sitting on the floor against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, face dripping with tears, breathing in panicked gulps.

“Credence, what happened?” Newt strides in behind Graves, crossing over and crouching beside Credence, hand on his shoulder. Credence shakes his head fervently, burying his face in his knees, shoulders heaving. Graves stands back in the doorway, even as Tina comes in and joins Newt by Credence’s side.

Newt is speaking to him in hushed tones, so quietly that Graves can’t hear. Tina has her head ducked in as well, nodding, hand rubbing at Credence’s shoulder. After a minute she looks up at Graves, still frozen in the doorway. She looks a little incredulous.

“Go tell the sound guy there’s no encore,” she tells him finally.

“But—”

“ _Graves._ ” It’s her no-nonsense voice; when she says his name like that he knows there’s no argument to be had. She says _Graves_ but she means _listen to me, or else._ She says _Graves_ but she means _I thought you loved him. What the fuck are you doing?_

So Graves turns and hurries through the network of hallways, coming out of a door near the back of the room, hoping nobody recognizes him. He slips into the sound booth.

“No encore,” he tells the already near-irate man. “Sorry.”

“The fuck’s going on?” He grumbles, but he fades out the music and raises the lights.

“Emergency,” Graves mutters, and then hurries back over to where he came from, heading back downstairs. This is their last show of the contract, and by the looks of it, it might be their last show ever. It’s a sudden thought that hits him, and the very idea of that would have been ridiculous just weeks ago. Now it seems imminent.

When he makes it back to their room, Credence has calmed down, now sitting on the couch and curled into Tina’s side, a glass of water in his hand. He looks up and gives Graves a wavering smile.

“I’m so sorry, Percy.”

“Sweetheart,” he admonishes. “Don’t be sorry.” He wants to reassure him, but what can he say? _You did great? That was fine?_ Credence isn’t stupid.

The door opens and Langdon steps inside, looking concerned. “Everything okay?” He takes in Credence’s tear-streaked face, his red-rimmed eyes, Tina’s comforting arm around his shoulders. “Credence, you alright?”

“He’s had a rough couple weeks,” Newt tells him quietly. “Sorry about this, Langdon.”

“Oh, no worries,” the man says, although Graves doesn’t trust that he isn’t worried. “Percival, you want to give me your keys and I’ll pull your car up? That way you guys can slip out unnoticed.”

“Thanks, Langdon,” he says gratefully. “I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, for sure. Listen, I’m gonna leave it up to you whether you guys want to sign on again. You know the contract’s up in November, so after that you’ll have to decide. Til then, you guys can relax. You’ve fulfilled your end, just let me know what you decide to do.” 

He pulls the car up to a surreptitious spot around the back and they all slide in quickly, narrowly avoiding the group of fans waiting just around the corner. Landon lets Graves get in the drivers side, closing the door behind him and then addressing him through the window.

“Whatever you choose to do, you guys are my passion project. I’ll always be so proud of what we’ve done together.”

His words makes it hurt even more. Graves drops Newt and Tina off and then drives home in silence. Credence draws his knees up in the seat, staring out the window the whole ride. When they get home, Graves undresses him and wraps him up in bed, holding him tight. 

“Don’t be mad at yourself, puppy. It happens to the best of us. You promise?”

Credence nods but he doesn’t say a word.

 

——

 

In the morning, Graves meets Newt at a cafe between their apartments. They hole up at a corner table, Newt’s sleepless eyes mirroring his own. 

“Last night was a shit show, I know,” Graves starts, and Newt shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh.” Graves has never heard him this despondent, lacking his usual brightness. “Newt, I need to talk to you about something. About Credence.”

“He’s really struggling, huh.” Newt swirls the stirring stick in his mug, so much cream and sugar that it barely constitutes coffee in Graves’ opinion.

“I think he needs to find a therapist,” Graves admits. “Soon. I don’t know, he’s always either depressed or panicking. He’s anxious over everything. He’s picking up all these bad, little kid habits. He’s really going maladaptive. I don’t know what to do. I was wondering what you knew, because of Theseus…” he trails off.

Theseus had been hesitant to tell him anything about his short lived love affair with the medley of antidepressants he’d been prescribed. His outbursts had gotten worse and worse until he finally caved and went to see a psychiatrist.

“Theseus was a tough case,” Newt says slowly, staring out the window. “He didn’t do well in therapy. He was reactive and hostile. He didn’t think anybody could help him. Credence might do better, but I know it’s difficult to get him to talk.” He finally looks back at Graves. “Um. Have you thought about medication?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Graves says with a long breath, “I’m scared he’ll become a zombie, doped up on Prozac or whatever. He won’t be the same person.”

“Is he the same person right now?”

Newt has a point. Graves takes a sip of his coffee and doesn't answer.

 

——

 

It is a Thursday evening when Credence comes to him.

Graves is sitting in the armchair by the window, staring at a book by the dim light of the table lamp, not taking in a single word. Lost in a vortex of thoughts, very few of them pleasant. It’s been one month since Mary Lou’s death, one month since Credence has been… _different._ It’s not that he’s mourning, exactly — at least not in any recognizable way. No, he is not grieving the loss of his mother, crying over photographs of her and recounting fond memories. This seems to have not much to do with Mary Lou herself, much more to do with Credence.

This is not Credence processing his grief, this is Credence processing his trauma.

It’s not as though he picked up many healthy coping mechanisms in that prison cell of a home. It’s not as though Graves can expect him to go through this in a mature and logical way. Credence is suffering and Graves can only stand and watch, play the enabler, play the helpless and useless boyfriend who does nothing but make things worse.

Credence has become frustrated with himself for his inability to be intimate, though Graves has been trying to explain to him that there is no _right_ way to have sex, that they can still touch each other and it can still be okay. Credence shuts down completely. And so he stops trying at all, starts rolling over to his side of the bed and falling asleep alone, leaving Graves with nothing to hold.

He can barely perform anymore, that much was made clear after their last show.

When Credence comes to him, he wishes he could say he’s surprised.

He’s clutching his belt, folded in half and looped, held up like an offering. A sacrifice. Muscle memory, this position held so many times before, practiced down to every breath, every gesture. Graves swallows hard.

“Credence…”

“Percy, please.”

He doesn’t have to say it. Graves knows.

“Credence, no.”

“Percy.” His voice is pleading. His eyes are dead. “I need it. Please.”

It takes twenty eight minutes for Credence to break Graves down. He begs him, he kisses him, he cries and cries, he folds himself into Graves’ arms, he blathers on about his memories and his pain and how he _can’t_ go forward, he just can’t, not until he goes back. Not until…

He has to get drunk to do it. Three shots of whiskey, and they burn going down, hot and sharp on his tongue. They hit him hard and fast, because he hasn't been drinking. Because he's been fucking  _trying._ Credence kneels before him, head bowed. Naked, shoulders hunched and trembling. Graves stands over him, one hand holding the belt, the other clenched in a fist. He digs crescent moons into his palm and wishes he was fucking dead.

“Safe word,” he says.

“Orchid.”

It’s a whisper, scratchy and barely-there. 

“Louder.”

“ _Orchid._ ”

He’s stalling now, running through his mind for anything that can make this stop, make Credence come to his senses. He’s adamant, so fucking determined, Graves can’t remember him ever being so certain about a single thing in all the time he’s known him. It makes him angry enough to flex his grip on the belt and raise it up above the boy's folded body.

Credence turns his head up, eyes finally meeting Graves’. That same dead look. Flat, the usual sparkle gone. Graves takes a breath and then grabs his hair, forcing his head back down.

“I don’t want to look at you,” he mutters. “Not for this.”

Credence doesn’t try to look up again. His hands are flat on his knees, rubbing slowly up and down his thighs, an anxious habit. Waiting.

Graves bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. Brings the belt up in the air and then down, hard, on Credence’s back. He jolts, nearly losing his balance, apparently surprised at the force behind the strike. Graves tries not to watch his reaction. _Don’t think about it. Just do it._

Again, he hits him, and again, Credence flinches, fingernails digging into his thighs now, red welts beginning to rise in long stripes between his shoulder blades. Graves lets out a slow breath, shaking out his hand a little. He’s clutching the belt buckle so tight it leaves an imprint in his hand.

As if he catches the thought, the slight movement of Graves’ hand, Credence speaks:

“Use the buckle.” He looks up. “Please.”

It’s anger, now. Coursing through Graves’ veins like cinnamon whiskey, burning and furious. _How dare he make me do this. How dare he make me be this._

He starts to whip Credence in earnest, with the buckle this time, and it makes a sickening _crack_ every time he hits bone. He tries not to hesitate because every time he does, Credence looks at him with that calm, expectant face. Graves fucking hates it.

He hits him harder and harder and suddenly Credence is crying, not quite upright anymore, keeled over in a strange position. When his body uncurls slightly Graves can see that Credence is hard, straining, and it makes him even angrier. The buckle starts to land on Credence’s arms and his shoulders and his torso, narrowly avoiding his face when Graves whips a hot red mark against his collarbone. Credence’s chest heaves, face practically dripping with tears, and Graves just hits harder. Harder.

Credence is sobbing now, a choked and ragged sound, and Graves is crying too, at first he doesn’t realize it, doesn’t realize he’s speaking, begging:

_Please Credence please just say it please I don’t want to do this anymore just say it please just say it._

He won’t. Graves knows he won’t, he never will, because Credence will take whatever he gives him and never question it for a single second. Maybe that was always true, maybe it wasn’t, he isn’t sure anymore. Isn’t sure about much of anything. He sucks in a breath and his hand stills. Credence is curled up, body distorted, hands covering his face protectively. 

“Get up,” he hears himself command through his tears. “Get the fuck up, Credence.”

The boy stumbles onto his knees, wringing his hands, hyperventilating, crying. Wrecked and broken and so small. 

“Say it, Credence. Fucking say it. You little monster. You sick fucking boy. I’m going to kill you. Do you understand? I am killing you. I've never hurt anybody like this, I don't want to, I could never… Credence. Please.”

By the end of it he's begging, tugging at his own hair, and he's so drunk he can't see straight, crying so hard that it doesn't matter. His eyes blur with tears and his whole body shakes.

Credence just looks up at him, lip quivering, eyes flashing. “Fuck you.”

Graves reels back and hits him with all his force, the blow cracking down on Credence’s spine and the boy chokes, mouth open in a surprised ‘O’, eyes wide as saucers, keeling over and coming hard, untouched, all over the hardwood floor. And it looks like sanctification. It looks like absolution. His body folded in half, forehead nearly touching the floor. 

Graves can’t look at his back, a battlefield of old scars and new welts, raw and bruising. Credence is trembling and twitching through the aftershocks of a violent orgasm, ripped from his body with sheer force. Graves stares, paralyzed for a moment and then drops the belt, falling to his knees, hand in Credence’s hair.

“Credence, puppy, please, baby, I’m so sorry, I love you so much,” he lifts Credence’s head and presses his lips to the boy's cheek, tries to kiss him, to wrap him up in his arms, to keep him close and safe and—

“Orchid.”

Graves pulls back like he’s been burned. “What?”

“Orchid.” Credence staggers to his feet, limping, turning around and nearly falling over. Blood trickling from several scraped spots. Bruises beginning to bloom all over like ink in water. The world slows and Graves feels dizzy.

“What do you mean?” He can’t tell if he says it or if it’s just in his head. Credence isn’t facing him, isn’t looking at him. He’s hobbling towards the bathroom door on weak legs, muttering under his breath.

_orchidorchidorchidorchid._

He slams the bathroom door behind him. Graves hears it click locked.

 

——

 

Graves spends an hour knocking at the door, fiddling with the knob, on his knees with his forehead pressed to the wood. Mumbling his pleas where Credence can’t hear them, resigned to defeat. He loses. Credence loses, too. Nobody wins. Nobody ever does.

Eventually, he gives up and falls into bed, curling up beneath the layers of blankets, shivering despite the smothering heat. He sleeps in the strange way where you never quite know if you’re sleeping, floating in and out of dreams that feel too close to reality. Dark and violent; paralysis nightmares. Sometimes he thinks he’s awake, staring up at the ceiling, when suddenly a darkness descends upon him, a static roar filling his ears, and he jerks, heart pounding, before falling back into the turmoil again.

And so, when Credence slips into bed beside him, he isn’t quite sure if it’s real. He hears the footsteps first, soft padding across the floor, and then he feels the blanket lift, the mattress dip just barely. Heat against his side. He turns, eyes open, sees the outline of Credence’s face reflecting the moonlight from the window. The dark smudges across his shoulders and chest could be shadows or bruises, he isn’t sure. Graves breathes very slowly, not wanting to move or to blink for fear of disturbing the dream, waking up suddenly alone and cold again.

It’s Credence who shifts forward, closer, reaching one hand out. Staring at him with an unreadable expression. 

Graves is tired, so tired.

He opens his arms, finally, and the scene does not dissolve — Credence is still there before him, squirming closer, into his arms. Graves wraps him up, the point of Credence’s nose pressed to his collarbone. The boy hisses when Graves’ hands rest against his back. It's sticky and raw. Graves feels sick. He gingerly pulls the sheet up against the boy’s skin and lets his hands fall over that, instead.

“Percy,” Credence whimpers, “I’m sorry.”

Graves can’t bring himself to respond.

 

——

 

Graves wakes first, finding Credence still burrowed against his body, breath fluttering against his neck. In the morning light, his body doesn’t look as mutilated as Graves had thought. It was much more terrifying in the dark. He breathes a sigh of relief. Credence is still bruised and red, still scabbed in some places, and there are little spots of blood on the sheets. But he isn’t fractured or bleeding or broken. He’ll be okay.

“Credence,” he whispers, pulling back the blankets. The sheet wrapped tightly around the boy’s body is stuck to his skin and Credence wakes when he tugs at it, wincing as the sheet detaches from his mangled back. 

Graves gets out of bed and circles to the other side, slipping his arms cautiously under Credence’s supine form, lifting him until he curls like a baby in Graves’ arms. He cradles the boy, carrying him slowly to the bathroom. Credence is still blinking sleepily, not fully awake yet. His mouth is pressed in a grim line, his teeth grinding down. He’s in pain.

Graves sets him down in the bathtub where he draws his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his body, hiding his face. Graves tests the water coming from the detachable shower head on his hand, making sure it isn’t too hot or too cold. And then he kneels down beside the tub, one hand on an unmarred part of Credence’s shoulder, the other aiming the stream at his back. It looks almost like a piece of abstract art, the eclectic and patternless marks, the watercolour bloom of bruises. Credence’s anemic body is a canvas. A temple. Graves feels a sob welling up in his chest and he breathes out shakily, dropping his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, his voice breaking.

“I don’t know what to say, Credence.”

The boy sniffles. “Can we just… can we just forget—”

“No.” It comes out harsher than he’d intended and he cringes, tries to ease his tone. “I could have killed you, Credence.”

“You wouldn’t,” Credence says frantically. “You would never.”

“Why didn’t you use your safe word?” Graves’ voice comes out helpless and pleading. “Why do you want me to hurt you so badly? I never wanted to be this person but I feel like I _am,_ now. I’d never even hit anyone before, really. Let alone someone I love.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says again, eyes fixed on the rivulets of water streaming into the drain. “I just needed… I. I just thought.”

He can’t finish his sentences and Graves doubts he even knows their conclusion himself. Credence doesn’t know what he needs, he doesn’t know what he thinks, he doesn’t know what he feels.

Graves breathes in and out slowly. “I’m going to finish cleaning you up and then I’m going to go get a hotel room. We need to spend a few days apart, I think. You can stay here and do whatever you’d like.”

Credence’s head shoots up and he looks at Graves, face panicked. “No, Percy, please, I don’t want you to go, I—”

“Credence,” he says firmly, “I need some time and space to think. So do you. You’ll be fine. There’s food in the house and you have your bank card if you need more. You can play video games. You can play guitar. You can read a book. You’ll be okay.”

“ _No_ ,” Credence wails, grabbing at Graves’ arm. “You can’t go, please, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, please, Percy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Graves mutters, shaking him off and standing up. Credence follows suit, naked and shivering and not quite steady on his feet, looking somewhat like he fell off a train. “I’m gonna go now, okay?”

In the end he has to threaten him.

_If you keep making a scene, I’m going to leave and never come back. Do you understand?_

The boy is sobbing, clutching at his sleeve, his jacket, begging him not to go. It’s a miserable scene and Graves starts to wonder what the fuck he did to ever end up in this position. But he manages to leave, a bag packed with a few changes of clothes and his laptop, driving to the nearest decent hotel and paying for two nights. He dreads telling Tina and Newt. He doubts Credence will. No, he'll most likely sit and stare at a fucking wall until Graves gets back. The thought makes his stomach turn.

This thing has gone dark, this thing that was once light and beautiful. Graves doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going, how much longer either of them can. It’s killing them both, slowly but surely; a dark cloud hovering ever closer above their heads. If they don't get out soon, they'll be the end of each other in such a spectacular collision it'll light the city for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter, spoiler version: credence asks percy to beat him with the belt, and he does. it's every bit as terrible as you'd imagine.
> 
> i'm so sorry for dragging these beautiful boys through hell over and over again. things always get worse before they get better. 
> 
> love you all <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for vaguely suicidal thoughts.
> 
> also, the chapter count went up, because i decided to combine this fic with a shorter one that was originally going to be separate. :)
> 
> last chapter: macusa play their final show of the contract, credence freaks and has a panic attack. later on, credence asks percy to beat him with the belt because he can't get his past out of his head. percy finally agrees, but he's miserable. credence refuses to safeword. finally percy stops and tries to hold him and then credence safewords and locks himself in the bathroom. later on, he comes back to bed. the next day, percy cleans him up and then tells him he's going to spend a few nights in a hotel.

Credence matches his heaving breaths up to the ticking of the clock. Four ticks in, four ticks out. His chest rattles. His entire body aches. He’s dressed, he did that much. The fabric of his tee shirt clings to his wounded back and he winces with every movement. Stupid. _Stupid._

How amazing it had felt, how _free_ he had been, like his soul was finally leaving his stupid body, this useless and pathetic form, incapable of satisfying the simplest demands. Sprawled on the floor, whipped ruthlessly, brutally, but not by Ma. By Percy. His love, his entire world, everything he cares for, everything that matters. Percy. Who would stop if he asked, who _begged_ him to ask, but how could Credence tell him to stop? How could he give up the release, the deliverance he was receiving? It’s a cruel mercy.

Every shift in his body sets his nerves on fire, a catalogue of injuries, and it makes Credence roll his eyes back with pleasure. _You little monster. You sick boy._ He shudders.

He can’t stop his memory from returning to that night at Newt and Tina’s apartment, Christmas Eve, just over two years ago. The first time Percy hit him, unprompted, the first time Credence saw the man’s capacity to give him what he needs, eyes lit up, terrified of himself.

_It’s okay,_ he’d wanted to tell him. _This is right. This is what I dream of. This is what I think about when I touch myself, so sinful and ashamed._

Percy knew, in that moment, exactly what Credence needs. He had truly _seen_ him. Oh, it feels so good to be seen. He may have hated himself after, may have questioned his every move, but Credence only loved him more for it. 

He’s taken it too far, though. He shouldn’t have asked, he never should have gone there, because now he’s really done it. He’s ruined it, just like he ruins every good thing, that black spot in his soul growing bigger by the hour. Overtaking everything. Percy thinks he’s bad but he’s good, he’s so good, so much better than Credence.

The snow has stopped falling and it makes Credence sad. He likes to watch it, he could lay in bed and look through the window for hours as it floats to the ground, blanketing the city. It always makes it feel so much warmer inside.

Percy has been gone for thirty six minutes.

Credence pulls out his phone and stares at the blank screen. No messages, no phone calls. His thumb hovers over Percy’s contact button. Maybe he should call him just to make sure he’s arrived safely.

_No,_ he tells himself. _Idiot. He doesn’t want to speak to you. That’s why he left, remember?_

Credence plays video games for seven hours. He doesn’t eat breakfast. He doesn’t eat lunch. At dinner time he finally shuts off the system and stands in the kitchen, staring blankly at the cupboard, fully stocked with cereal and bread and uncooked pasta noodles and canned soup. He closes it after a moment and goes to bed.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. The blinking lights from the window are distracting; the sound of cars keeps him on edge. Credence lies awake and thinks.

He thinks about Heaven, and what it means to be faithless. The irony of his name. His failure to be anything but a disappointment: to Ma, to his sisters, to Percy. _Percy._ Credence clutches at his phone, staring at the screen. Nobody has texted him or called him. Nobody does, other than Percy. He could open up the social media apps Newt downloaded for him, read through comments from adoring fans and vicious detractors alike. He doesn’t find much solace in the empty compliments and vows of devotion from strangers behind screen names. Besides, he can’t bring himself to unlock his phone, to solidify the fact that he didn’t miss the ring, didn’t fail to see the notification. Percy hasn’t called him.

He thinks about Ma. His heart aches for her. Though Percy tries his best, Credence knows that he doesn’t really understand why Credence is mourning the loss, why he isn’t relieved that this woman who has tormented him ceaselessly for the past eighteen years of his life is gone. The reason for his twitchy movements, for his skinny wrists, for the shiny scar tissue wrapping around his body like a morbid ribbon, tying him up forever. 

But Ma didn’t hit him just to hurt him. Didn’t starve him just for fun, didn’t really throw him in the cellar because she couldn’t stand to look at him. Ma broke his body in an attempt to free his soul, to rid him of the malignant darkness that blooms there, that has been growing since he was very young. He can see it more clearly every day: it curdles in his blood like something rotten, his bones ache from trying to grow away from it. It is a darkness so deeply rooted that nothing can pull it from him. But Ma tried.

It’s his own fault. All of it. He’s been trying, trudging along in the post-apocalyptic ruins of his soul, trying to make something bigger than himself so that maybe when he finally succumbs he will have something to offer to the world as an apology. But he wrecked it, like he always does, his wicked and faithless mind. Macusa can live without him. Percy can live without him. The world will continue turning and the stars will not dim with his departure.

Credence heaves in a sob, turning on his side, curling around a pillow. He’s succeeded in doing nothing but dragging Percy down, slowly but surely. He’d said it himself.

_I don’t want to be this person. Why do you want to make me this person?_

It isn’t Percy’s fault that Credence is so damaged, so delusional to believe that his needs and desires make sense. They only get darker and more sordid and Percy can’t handle it anymore. He shouldn’t have to. 

Because it’s not just the week. It’s not just Ma’s death, or Percy leaving for a few days, or Credence’s loneliness. It’s the every day. It’s the nightmares, it’s the hesitation on Percy’s face before he touches him. It’s the split second of regret that crosses his face after he does. It’s the concerned questions from Tina, it’s the practiced gentleness from Newt. It’s the disappointment on Modesty’s face every time he leaves. It’s the superiority on Chastity’s. It’s the fear. It’s the panic. It’s the waking up, it’s the going to sleep. It’s all so hard.

Credence turns over and buries his face in the pillow. Sleep comes like a welcome death.

 

——

 

When Credence wakes up, he turns instinctively to wrap his arms around Percy. The way he does every morning, the way he always has.

It takes him a moment to register the emptiness of the bed, the weight of Percy’s absence that leaves him feeling cold and bereft. He clutches at his pillow, staring at the vacant space, the rumpled sheets where Percy’s body should be. Warm and sleeping and ready for Credence to crawl on top of him, to kiss around his cheeks, to whisper silly things into his mouth with dry lips and morning breath.

He closes his eyes and strokes the tips of his fingers across his cheek, down to his neck, as if he could possibly make himself believe Percy is still here.

Pathetic. So pathetic.

He drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen. The clock on the coffeemaker tells him it’s 1:48 pm. He rubs at his eyes, runs a hand through his knotted hair. He feels weak, clutching the edge of the counter. He should eat, he knows he should eat, but his stomach has other ideas.

After ten minutes of standing there uselessly, staring at the closed cabinet, he gives up and goes into the living room. He plays video games again, mindless and numb, hands moving on the controller without conscious effort. Percy bought him this game. Percy bought him the whole system, the fanciest and most expensive one, all the games he could ever ask for. A few steps up from Angry Birds, certainly. He lets himself get lost, slouched on the sofa, feet curled beneath him. It’s easy to ignore the twisting of his hollow stomach, the persistent ache in his heart. He runs and shoots and kills and by the time he’s nearly driven himself insane with the repetition of it, it’s nearly eight.

He won’t eat, he can’t, his body won’t allow it. He already feels nausea chewing at him at the mere thought of food. He can wash himself, though, he can do that much. He can be clean and fresh and ready for when Percy gets home. Maybe he’ll even shave himself all over, show Percy that he knows how to do it too.

A bath, first. Hot and comforting and relaxing. He’ll allow himself that.

In the bathroom, he undresses slowly, standing in front of the full-length mirror. He looks awful. The circles under his eyes are nearly blue, his hair a mess of dark tangles around his head. He’s slouching again, shoulders rounded. His eyes don’t open fully. 

He turns around and cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder at the train track scars on his back. Percy didn’t even hurt him that badly, really. Ma has done so much worse.

Credence nearly laughs at the way he so quickly ranks the people who have beat him. _This scar versus this scar. Who hit harder? Who used the buckle?_

Pink and silver and red criss-cross his shoulder blades, the small of his back. His skin will never be clear, but neither will his soul. It seems fitting.

He runs a bath, sitting down on the cool tiles beside the tub and resting his head on the ledge. The water flows out slowly and he keeps a hand under the stream, enjoying the way it burns him, the heat nipping at his skin and turning him numb.

His breath comes out slow against the porcelain edge of the tub, fogging the reflection, and he barely notices as the first tear drips off of his face and onto the floor. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to will himself to stop. Stop crying. Just stop fucking crying, for one minute of your life.

Ma, whipping him hard when he cried, harder when he didn’t. Percy, holding him close as his body shook with sobs, but unable to disguise the weary look in his eyes. Newt and Tina, averting their gazes. Everybody, everybody. 

Pathetic. There’s nothing, there’s nobody.

His thoughts don’t make sense.

He clambers up on shaky legs and sinks into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you guys. thank you for all your comments, as always. stay safe <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavy warnings for this chapter. check the tags. full/spoiler-y warnings in the end notes.
> 
> if it's too much, i'll put a little recap up with the next chapter.
> 
> <3

Staying away from Credence isn’t the relief Graves thought it would be. He’s still constantly worrying, only now he’s doing it from a distance, which feels even worse. The guilt is eating at his insides, acidity fizzling in his stomach constantly, and he doesn’t eat at all. He has to hold himself back from calling, from texting, just to make sure he’s okay. The only way he resists is by telling himself he’s doing this for Credence. He needs this time apart as much as Graves does, only he’ll never realize it on his own.

Graves has reached an impasse, a rare moment of absolute uncertainty that he can’t shake. He’s never had a hard time making decisions. He’s made a whole lot of bad ones, he’ll be the first to admit it, but he’s never been stuck like this. Standing at the forked road, both paths leading to an inevitable end. He can stay with Credence, let them continue down this spiral, keep destroying the boy piece by piece, or he can leave him and force him to fend for himself in this cruel world. Neither option is appealing. Nobody wins.

Nobody ever does.

He texts Newt when he gets to the hotel, just to let him know. He wonders if Credence will turn to him and Tina. He certainly could, they dote on the kid, but he knows Credence has a wall up even around them. Maybe he’ll call Luna. Hopefully he’ll do _something_ , anything but sit in that apartment and wait for Graves to return.

His message to Newt is quick and vague.

 

_Credence and I are taking a few days apart. Maybe call him tomorrow and check up on him if he doesn’t reach out._

 

Newt responds right away, thankfully not asking any further questions.

 

_will do, hope everything’s ok._

 

Graves lounges back in the hotel bed, watching some mindless reality show on the wide flatscreen mounted on the wall, trying to figure out when exactly it went bad, when the light dimmed, when the blood of the thing ran toxic.

 

——

 

On his second night in the hotel, Newt calls him.

“What’s up?” He props his phone between his ear and shoulder, typing out a response to an email from Langdon. As patient as he’s been, they have to decide what they want to do moving forward, and they have to decide soon. All of that has been in the very back of Graves’ mind considering the circumstances.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Credence and he hasn’t been answering my texts or calls,” Newt says, voice a little distant through the phone line. Graves’ attention immediately snaps to life and he shuts the laptop, standing up, phone gripped in one shaking hand as Newt continues. “I was going to invite him over tonight, just to hang out. I tried calling three or four times in the past hour or so. Maybe you should check on him.”

“Yeah,” Graves says, his voice a near-whisper. “Thanks.”

He hangs up and immediately hits Credence’s contact. It rings, tinny in Graves’ ears, and he digs his fist into his temple. “Come on, pick up, fuck, _come on._ ”

He calls over and over again until he loses track of how many times he hits the icon. Every time the voicemail message starts, ringing out Credence’s soft voice, his heart sinks deeper. 

“ _Fuck._ ” He sweeps around the room, throwing his things into his bag, certain he’s forgetting several things but not giving a fuck at all as he leaves the room. He takes the stairs down to the first floor two at a time, too impatient to wait for an elevator, and is in his car and on the road in five minutes. Traffic isn’t too heavy; it’s nearly nine o’clock and evening commuters are mostly gone. Still, every red light makes his heart pound faster, his hands slapping impatiently against the steering wheel. 

_Why didn’t he answer?_

Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe he’s sleeping. Maybe he’s so wrapped up in that stupid video game that he doesn’t even hear his phone ringing. There are countless reasons Credence could be away from his phone and it’s more likely than not that the boy is going to be perfectly fine, surprised at his return, giving him that sweet and bashful little smile as he walks through the door. Graves feels himself tearing up absurdly at the thought. He never should have left. He'll never fucking leave again.

He gets home in record time, racing up the stairs and twisting his key in the lock, pushing the door open and dropping his bag on the floor. Credence isn’t in the kitchen, or the living room. The bedroom door is closed. Graves opens it. Credence isn’t in bed, isn’t sitting at the desk. The bathroom door is propped open and the light is on. 

Maybe he went for a walk. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he’s with Luna.  Graves takes a slow breath and steps cautiously over to the bathroom door. It opens silently.

His knees hit the tile floor hard. 

His hands shoot out stupidly, uselessly, as if he can scoop up the blood like sand and pour it back into Credence’s body. Fill him up, inflate him back to the boy he used to be, the boy he is supposed to be. Sweet and warm and full of wonder and light. Unmarred by the trauma of his past, by every single person who has tried to kick him down, crawling until he can walk, walking until he can step into the sun.

There’s something angelic about the tableau, a still image from a film, the deadly climax that leaves you shuddering in your seat until you shut off the TV. _There but for the grace of God._

Credence’s face carries the same peaceful expression that Graves admires while the boy sleeps. His hair floats around him in the horribly tinted bathwater, a morbid halo, his face drained of all colour. Graves is frozen for five seconds, ten, fifteen. 

_911, what’s your emergency?_

“I need an ambulance, please, right away, I need you to send someone right now, he’s not— please—”

_Sir, I’m going to need your address and the nature of the emergency._

“465 Park Avenue,” he whispers. “Apartment 207. Please.” He drops the phone and it clatters to the floor, but he doesn’t hear a thing. 

Because Credence has opened himself, arms up like an offering, body unable to hold all the hurt. Letting it seep out into the tub through two stark lines like a minimalist painting, the kind they would secretly scorn together in whispered voices at galleries, head to head, lip to ear. 

Graves wants to scream. He can feel it in his chest, in his throat, the sound ripping through him, trapped and violent and smashing itself against his ribcage. It won’t come out. He reaches into the tub and pulls Credence out, one arm under his shoulders and one under his knees, like a baby, supporting his head. He feels sick at the way it lolls back. Rag doll.

He pulls him from the water, out of the sick aquarium of his own blood, out of the swirling red tide of every-fucking-thing Graves has done wrong, every way he's failed the boy in the past three years. Credence is heavy in his arms, bare aside from the black fabric of his boxers, clinging to his pallid skin. He drips pink water onto the white tiles as Graves retches, forcing himself not to vomit. He cradles Credence close to him, keeping his arms elevated as best he can, pressing his lips to the boy’s forehead.

“I’m so sorry, Credence,” he sobs. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The boy’s pulse is a faint thrum, but it’s enough to keep Graves from unravelling completely. 

_Get him downstairs. Get him to the ambulance. He will be okay. You need to move. You need to go._

Graves is paralyzed, stagnant. He can’t bring himself to stand, to move forward, because a single step means that this is real. The ambulance means emergency. The hospital means apologetic doctors and _we tried our best._ Graves’ head is spinning and he breathes slowly against Credence’s soft cheek, still warm, still alive. 

Credence stirs in his arms and Graves panics, nearly dropping him, his skin slippery against his hands.

“Percy.” It’s a weak and faltering sound, barely registering, and Graves is so out of it that he would think he’d imagined it if it wasn’t for the boy’s eyelids fluttering, lips parting slowly.

“Credence,” he whispers, leaning down and kissing his dry, pale lips, gentle and trembling. The boy doesn’t move to respond. “Credence, the ambulance is coming, okay?”

Credence mumbles something incoherent and Graves clutches his head, desperate. “What, baby? I can’t hear you.”

“Orchid,” he whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. “Make it stop, Percy.”

There’s a pounding on the apartment door and Graves scrambles up, lifting Credence with him. He hears himself shouting, as if through a tunnel, voice breaking. _It’s open. It’s open. Please hurry._

And then there are paramedics taking Credence’s limp body from him and he’s sobbing, begging, keeping hold of Credence’s shoulder and then his hand and then he’s grasping at empty air as a uniformed woman gently but firmly tells him he can ride along in the ambulance but _we need to take him now, I’m sorry. We have to go._

He follows them out of the apartment like he’s in a trance, not feeling his feet hitting the floor, seeing nothing but the form of Credence’s body on the stretcher. The paramedics keep barking questions at him and his head is spinning, he can barely focus, trying to remember, trying to answer. 

_Any history of mental illness? No, I mean, I don’t know, he was abused, his mother, he— Any history of narcotic addiction? Issues with opioids? No, definitely not — Any pre-existing conditions? Heart, lungs? No, not that I know of, I don’t think — Does he have health insurance? Yes, yes, I have his card, I…_

In the ambulance, Credence stirs, face twisted, breath shuddering out of him laboriously. Graves keeps a hand on his head, one on his bare chest, speaking to him in a pained and cracking voice.

“Credence, I need you to stay awake for me, okay?” He says, tears pouring out of him, voice hitching on every word, “Can you do that for me, baby? Just keep breathing, okay, just stay awake. Please, puppy, I just need you to do this one thing for me, okay? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The paramedic watches with sympathetic concern, keeping an eye on the small screen showing Credence’s vitals. His heart rate is dropping and his eyes start to roll back, only a strip of white showing between dark lashes.

“Credence, come on,” he urges, and then he’s moved aside swiftly by the paramedic.

“Credence, can you hear me?” She asks, voice sharp and clear. “Can you open your eyes?”

After a moment he does, struggling, eyes opening only half way.

“Good,” she soothes, glancing up at the monitor. “We’re almost there, sweetheart. Just hold on for a few more minutes.”

Graves buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, trying to hold himself back from hysterics. The floodgates are breaking and he can’t quite get a grip on himself. He can’t think straight, can’t hold onto a stable thought for long enough to even begin to process what’s happening. By the time they get to the hospital he’s in a daze, tripping over himself as he follows the paramedics quickly into the emergency room. One stops and holds him back.

“We’ll let you know when you can come in,” he tells him.

“No, no, I have to go in now,” Graves mumbles hurriedly, trying to push past him, “That’s my… that’s. I have to go in.”

“Sir, we’ll let you know as soon as you’re able to.”

“I love him,” Graves weeps, the only words that make sense, the only words he can say. “I love him, please, I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry.”

The man’s face softens and he places his hands on Graves’ elbows, steadying him, noticing how unstable he is on his feet. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Is he your husband? Boyfriend?” Graves nods. The man sighs. “Sometimes we have no way of knowing what’s going through someone’s head, even when it’s someone we know very well and love very much. It isn’t your fault. You can see him soon, okay?”

_I knew,_ Graves wants to scream.  _I knew for so long and I did nothing. There were years worth of warning signs. His entire life was a fucking warning sign._

But he just nods, mute, staring at the floor. The paramedic guides him down the hall and into a small private room with a few padded chairs and a table. A coffee machine. A basket of fruit.

“You can have this room for now,” he tells him, “And we’ll come get you when you can come in.”

Graves nods again, hands folded tightly together in his lap. The man leaves, pulling the door closed behind him with one last comforting smile, and then Graves is alone. The room is silent, the heavy door blocking out all sound from the emergency room.

The seconds drag like hours. He watches the hand of the clock trudge slowly from dash to dash, going nowhere. He waits and waits and waits.

After twenty three minutes and twelve seconds, the door opens. It’s the paramedic from the ambulance. She gives him a small, tight smile. Lines in her face suggest years of this job. It must wear you down.

“You can come see him,” she says. “He’s stable.”

Graves stands too fast, blood rushing to his head, his vision blacking out momentarily. He clutches the doorframe and takes a deep breath before following her down the hall.

Credence's room is private — he’s got the best health insurance in the fucking country, Graves had made sure of it. There’s a monitor beeping quietly at his side, a large window spilling light over the thin white blankets. Everything is blank and sterile and unwelcoming. The room smells like chemicals. Credence has never looked so small.

He’s awake, though his eyes are hooded and glazed over, face as white as the sheets that wrap around his body. He doesn’t even look up as Graves freezes in the doorway. Staring.

“He lost a decent amount of blood but he won’t need a transfusion. We stitched him up in time. We estimated he was only bleeding for about ten minutes before you found him.” She speaks in a low voice and Graves tries his best to take the words in logically, factually, and not fall to the floor in misery. “He’s tired. He’ll have to stay overnight and see the psychiatrist when he gets in tomorrow. He’ll either be discharged or admitted to psych, depending on how that goes. He might be a little hazy right now, they’ve got him on a low dose of morphine.” She pauses, looking at Graves. “Did he say anything to indicate—”

“No,” Graves says hastily. “No. Nothing.”

She nods. “Okay. If he doesn’t show signs of psychosis or the possibility of a repeated attempt he’ll most likely be discharged. You’re free to go home and come back. If you’d like to stay overnight, you can, but you’ve only really got that chair by his bed.”

“I’m staying,” he says quickly. She nods with a sympathetic smile and then leaves the room. He crosses slowly to the bedside, taking in the image before him.

Credence’s arms are laid out at his sides, the left sliced wrist to elbow, the right cut only half way, as if he was too weak to finish the job. Or maybe he changed his mind. They’re stitched together, an eery Frankenstein criss-cross, the tiniest threads holding his boy together. Graves feels a muddled mix of anger and aching sadness, regret and desperation. Finally Credence turns his head and his eyes look at him, unfocused. His pupils are blown. 

“Percy,” he says, quiet and raspy.

Graves nods jerkily, trying to blink away the tears that come too fast. “I’m here, puppy. I’m not going anywhere.” He reaches out and takes the boy’s hand in his. It’s cold and dry and he’s careful not to move it too much, not to hurt him. Credence’s fingers curl weakly around his own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, still staring at Graves, not looking away, not blinking.

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Graves says, shuddery through his tears. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should have known you were—”

Credence shakes his head, frowning. All of his movements are slow and delayed; it's likely just an effect of the opiates but Graves can’t help but fear the worst. “Not your fault,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Graves doesn’t say anything in response but sighs, pulling the beside chair closer. He sits and rests his head by Credence’s shoulder, hand floating up to rest on the boy’s collarbone where it peeks out from under his hospital gown. He can feel his heartbeat, faint but steady, and the maelstrom in his head slows. He wasn’t too late. Credence is okay.

After a few minutes, he broaches the subject he’s been terrified to approach. “Are you… do you still want to.” He clears his throat. “Do you still want to do it?”

“ _No,_ ” Credence whispers, and the force of it splinters his voice. Graves feels him starting to shake with the beginnings of tears. “No, Percy, I don’t want to die. I don’t think I even did when I did it. I just wanted it to be quiet. All of it.”

“I know,” Graves tells him. “I’m so sorry, puppy. I know you’ve been struggling. I should have been more careful. I should have made you an appointment, you should be talking to someone, someone... other than me.”

“I’m twenty three,” Credence says quietly. “I should be able to take care of myself.”

A doctor appears in the door then, a man with a careful smile and kind eyes looking out from behind round-framed glasses. “Doctor James Potter,” he tells them. “It’s nice to meet you, despite the circumstances. Credence, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” the boy says faintly, hesitant to tear his eyes away from Graves’ face. Graves stands and shakes the man’s hand.

“Percival Graves,” he tells him. “Credence’s partner.”

“Can I have a word with you outside, Mr Graves?”

Graves nods, following him out. They turn the corner into the quiet hallway, empty except for the occasional nurse ducking from room to room.

“How are you doing, Percival?” He asks, a kind concern present on his voice. 

Graves can still feel the dampness beneath his eyes. He nods, clearing his throat. “Uh. I mean, not great, right? But it’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.” He looks up, searching the doctor’s face. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Credence will be fine,” Dr Potter says smoothly. “He’s going to see the psychiatrist first thing in the morning and then he can most likely go home. With a referral and a prescription, of course.”

“Of course,” Graves repeats, though all of this is entirely foreign to him.

“I wanted to talk to you about something else,” Dr Potter says, and goes quiet for a moment, glancing back toward the door to Credence’s room, considering. “Credence has you down as a personal representative, which means that I’m legally permitted to discuss his treatment and condition with you. Percival, I’m going to be straight with you, okay?”

“Okay,” Graves says, his voice faltering a little, feeling a flutter of anxiety in his stomach.

“Credence has some very concerning injuries on his back and chest, a few on his legs as well.”

“Oh,” Graves says faintly, his heart sinking. _Oh._ “Yes.”

“He told one of the nurses he was attacked on the street. He didn’t really elaborate and he was fairly delirious at the time. One of his paramedics told me you mentioned an abusive mother…” Dr Potter pauses. “I just want to make sure there isn’t a more serious issue here. I’m aware that he’s an adult and he’s living with you, but there are measures that can be taken, if—”

“No, no, it was — it was a group of men,” Graves breathes, overwhelmed with relief at Credence’s incoherent brain for still managing to come up with an excuse. “They jumped him when he was walking home. He was okay, he…he bruises easily,” he finishes lamely, searching Dr Potter’s face for any traces of skepticism.

“Did you press charges?”

“No, we… we don’t know who they were.”

“Hm.” Dr Potter sighs, looking down at his clipboard for a moment. “Those are some pretty serious injuries, Percival. There’s a small fracture in his collarbone. It’s the easiest bone to break, of course, but… it still takes some force.”

“If I could track them down I would,” Graves says, trying to force some conviction into his voice. “I know it really shook him, I don’t know if it drove him to… you know.” His voice shakes, and that much is real.

After a moment, the doctor nods. “Alright. I just wanted to bring it up, in case. I’m here until noon tomorrow. He should be able to see the psychiatrist around eight.” He goes to walk away, but turns back after a second. “Credence has a lifetime’s worth of scarring, Mr Graves. All over his back and arms and legs. I don’t mean to pry, or to intrude, but he's certainly been through the wringer. I hope you're... well, I hope he's getting the help he needs.”

“Thank you, Dr Potter.” Graves has a strange sense that the doctor knows, in some way. A nagging suspicion, like he’s hiding more than he’s letting on. It’s paranoia, he tells himself, because if the doctor suspected him of abusing Credence, of causing those injuries himself…

But Dr Potter leaves with one last nod and Graves sags against the wall with relief.He can’t imagine the protocol if there hadn’t been a credible story, though how plausible his story was he isn’t sure. It seems weak, the cracks rather obvious. The doctor’s careful final statement reads more to him as a warning.

_Stop hurting him. He can’t handle it. His body can’t take it anymore._

Graves spends a few more minutes in the hallway, collecting his thoughts, before returning to Credence’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: graphic suicide attempt. intense/frightening scenes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you skipped the last chapter, here's a quick recap:
> 
> credence attempts suicide while percy's away, percy comes back and finds him. he calls an ambulance and credence is taken to the hospital. his doctor asks percy about the scars on credence which he covers with a ~vague~ explanation.

The hospital is cold and blindingly white. Everything is clinical and clean and it makes Credence feel like he’s suspended in an empty dream, detached from reality. When Percy is there he feels closer to existence, like he can just see it, though still separated by a translucent curtain. When Percy steps out, to make a call or to get a coffee or to smoke, he’s floating again, drifting slowly away.

He doesn’t want to tell Percy these things. He doesn’t want to make him feel more guilty than he already does. He can see it, eating at him slowly, the regret painted on his face in thick strokes. He can’t figure out the right things to say to take those feelings away. He’s never been very good with words.

Nurses bring him trays of food, but nothing seems appetizing right now. He feels ashamed for refusing it — he knows that Percy is paying for the highest level of health care he could possibly get, a privatized hospital, the meals here are probably better than any hospital in the country. But he can’t stomach the thought of eating anything right now.

Finally, they tell him he hasn’t eaten in days and that he needs to get something in his body or he’ll have to be fed through a tube. The threat scares him enough to struggle through a few measly spoonfuls of soup, a small dinner roll. That’s all he can manage without turning his stomach inside out.

The worst part is the way Percy keeps looking at him. With these eyes, so stricken and sad, as though he’s watching Credence die.

_I’m okay,_ he wants to scream.  _I’m not dying. It’s not your fault._

He can’t take it back now, though. The crimson slashes down his pale arms are still there every time he wakes, every time he glances down. They don’t feel real. He looks at them with a morbid fascination. _I did that._ It’s almost triumphant, the thought of these marks he made himself, like an artist creating their first original work. Finally, scars he can control. Finally, a choice he made all on his own. 

He doesn’t say these things out loud.

He wonders what time it is. He knows it was just after seven o’clock when he got in the bath. Everything after that has disappeared into a spiral of confusion. How long has it been? Have hours passed? Days? Percy must have found him not long after he went unconscious.

Percy. Of course Percy would come, how could he have ever thought otherwise? Of course Percy would save him, pull him from the bathtub, wrap him up and keep him safe. He wishes he didn’t have to come to the hospital. He’d rather Percy have laid him down in their bed, staining the sheets with his blood, his sacrifice, his love. He’d rather Percy stitch him up, no anaesthetic, so he could feel every move he made. Wishes Percy could string an IV between them, transfuse his own blood straight into Credence’s body, give him mouth to mouth like a ventilator.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep but he must have, because suddenly he’s waking up and Percy is asleep in the chair beside his bed, curled towards him, face pinched. Credence hopes he isn’t having nightmares. He wants to reach out to him but his arm aches, and so he just watches him, tears welling up and spilling over.

Newt and Tina come to see him in the morning, or what he assumes is morning, based on the light flowing in from the window by his bed. They’re both teary-eyed and pale, Tina’s arms crossed, Newt’s arm around her. They stand hesitantly in the doorway until Percy beckons them in.

“Hello, Credence,” Newt says, voice cracking a little. “Are you feeling okay?”

Credence nods. “I’m sorry, Newt.” He looks over at Tina who’s shaking with sobs, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Tina.”

“Stop apologizing,” Percy says gently, putting a hand on his forehead. Percy keeps checking his temperature but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t feel warm in the slightest. It’s so cold in here, even under layers of hospital blankets.

“We’re just glad you’re okay, Credence,” Tina says in a weak voice. “We wanted to come by and let you know that… that we’re here. For you. Always, okay?”

Credence nods. “Thank you.” 

Dr Potter appears in the doorway, looking rather tired. Credence likes him. He’s quiet and he doesn’t ask difficult questions the way everybody else at the hospital does. He seems more like a real person, and he understands that Credence doesn’t always know the answers.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Credence has to go see the psychiatrist now.” A nurse appears from behind him and busies herself at Credence’s bedside, unhooking his IV from his arm and spreading a bandage over the spot. 

“The morphine in your system should last you, but if you’re in pain you can let the doctor know and we’ll get you your tablets, okay?”

Credence feels a little overwhelmed with the sudden motion. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He doesn’t want to leave Percy. He looks at him, panicked, and Percy shushes him, pressing his lips to the palm of his hand. 

“It’s okay, Credence. I’ll be right here waiting for you, okay?”

And so Credence lets himself be escorted away, out of his room and down the hallway. 

 

——

 

The psychiatrist has a kind face, but there’s something about her that makes Credence shy away. Like he can’t hide a thing; like she already knows.

“My name is Leta Lestrange,” she says in a gentle voice, reaching out to shake his hand. His eyes stay fixed on the bandages around his wrist as he offers his own limp fingers. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions, and then you can go right back to your— your partner?”

“Percy,” Credence says faintly. “And Newt and Tina are here too.” He looks up hopefully, as if maybe he’ll seem more normal. “They’re my friends.”

She smiles warmly. “That’s very nice that they’re here to see you. Do you spend a lot of time with them?”

Credence shrugs. “Not as much as I used to, I guess, I mean…” He clears his throat. “We’re in a band together, but we don’t play so many shows anymore.

“And how about Percy?” Her expression doesn’t falter but Credence’s insides clench all the same.

“We live together. So yeah, I spend a lot of time with him.”

“And how long have you been seeing each other?”

“Um, since I was nineteen. Four years.”

“Are you happy with him?"

Credence’s eyes shoot up from where they’d been cataloguing every speck on the freckled tile floor. “Yes. I love him.”

“But are you happy?” She asks gently. “Those two things are… sometimes not in sync. Do you know what I mean?”

“I guess.” Credence’s voice comes out as barely a whisper. “I’m happy.” He clenches his jaw, and wonders who it is he’s trying to convince.

“And how about your family?”

He squirms uncomfortably in the plush leather chair. She must already know. They must have told her.

“My mother died a couple months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She hit me.” He suddenly feels like he’s going to cry. “She hated me. But I was still sad when she died.”

“Perfectly normal,” Dr Lestrange murmurs. “Not at all out of the ordinary. It’s common to have complicated feelings surrounding parental figures, especially when your upbringing wasn’t easy.”

He just nods.

“Have you ever been diagnosed with or treated for depression, anxiety, or other mental health problems?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay. Do you use any drugs or alcohol?”

“I mean, I… I have, but I don’t very often.”

She sets her clipboard down and leans her elbows on the desk, that welcoming smile ever present on her face. He blinks at her.

“Do you feel sad very often, Credence? I want you to be honest with me. Nothing you tell me will leave this room, and that’s the law. But in order for me to help you, I need you to tell me the truth.”

He can feel the tears start to sting in his eyes. He lets out a shuddering breath and closes them, feeling one tear bead up and roll down the sharp planes of his cheek. “Um, I— yeah, I guess I do. I just feel like I mess everything up and if I wasn’t such a burden on everybody, they might be happier. And I don’t really have anything anymore. I mean, I… I have Percy, and… I mean, I just don’t feel like I’m useful anymore.”

“Do you often have suicidal thoughts?”

“ _No_ ,” he says, and cringes, because it was too forceful. He quickly corrects his tone. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to die, I just needed everything to be quiet. Everything is so loud sometimes, you know?” He looks up at her. Her expression softens, something like sympathy crossing her face. “I shouldn’t have done it. I know it was stupid. I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” she tells him. “Not in the slightest. It doesn’t make you weak or stupid or bad in any way to struggle with feelings like this. You just need to figure out how to seek help. I’m in the position to help you, Credence. I’m going to refer you to a psychiatrist in the city and I want you to call and book an appointment with her. She’s very good and I think she’ll be able to help you. Does that sound okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

“I’m also going to give you a prescription for medication that should help you feel less anxious and depressed. It works to regulate your mood a little bit better. There’s no shame in struggling, Credence. It’s good to get help.”

She starts scribbling on her clipboard again and then tears a sheet away and hands it to him. “You can take this to the pharmacy and get it filled. You’ll be taking it every day, but it may be a few weeks to a month before you start to balance out. I’m going to go fetch Percy and bring him back here to see you, because you’ll be discharged now. Do you have any questions?”

_Does Percy hate me?_ He wants to ask. _Will the medicine make me dull and empty and even more useless than I already am?_

Distantly, he feels himself starting to cry again, except harder this time. His shoulders shake and he struggles to suck in breath but his lungs won’t cooperate and he’s gasping, hands digging into his thighs through the thin material of the hospital gown.

He can hear her voice speaking to him but he can’t open his eyes. _You’re okay, Credence. It’s okay._ But he’s shaking his head and whimpering and he must be ripping into the skin of his legs, his hands clawing viciously, grasping for something to hold onto. 

It could be minutes, it could be hours. When he opens his eyes, Dr Lestrange is crouched beside his seat, a tiny plastic tray held in her hand. His breath stutters out through his mouth.

“This will help you calm down,” she assures him, offering a glass of water along with the tray, which holds two tiny pills. “You’re okay. You’ve had a rough couple days, and now you just need to relax.”

He nods jerkily, taking the offered pills and swallowing down the water.

“I’m going to go get Percy now. I’ll be right back. Do you want me to find a nurse to wait with you?”

He shakes his head, feeling rather numb and overwhelmed. He watches her retreating form as she leaves the room, and wonders how long it’ll take for Percy to leave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, leta lestrange ran the hostel in 'forsaken heaven...' and here she is again. let's just say the hostel-running leta was her aunt or something, because i wrote that before CoG came out (obviously) and had no idea what kind of character leta actually was. basically just used her name. now that i've got a sort of idea about her personality, i wanted to use the character in a more reflective way.
> 
> :)


	8. Chapter 8

The second Credence is gone, Graves falls apart. He collapses, body wracked with sobs, sinking to the cold tile floor against the plaster wall, sprawled and shaking. He’s never cried like this in his life and he can tell through the haze of his hysteria that Newt and Tina are alarmed. Tina falls to her knees beside him and wraps him up, their position awkward but her embrace comforting enough.

“Percy, Percy,” she sighs. “He’s gonna be okay.”

“This is my fault,” Graves says through his tears, “I did this to him. I fucked him up so bad, you have no idea. I need to stay away. I need to leave him alone.”

“Credence loves you so much,” Newt says gently, joining Tina on the floor in front of him, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm.

“That’s the fucking _problem,_ ” Graves gasps, unable to catch his breath, heart racing out of control. He knows in some distant part of his mind that he’s having a panic attack, that he just needs to _breathe_ , but he can’t force his body into compliance. He thinks back to all the times Credence has panicked, all the ways Graves comforted him, and none of it makes sense anymore. Meaningless. Pointless. “That’s the problem. He loves me and loves me and all I do is fuck with him.”

“Credence doesn’t see it that way,” Tina says firmly, “I know that. That boy thinks you built the fucking sun, Graves. He worships you.”

“I left him,” Graves whimpers, “He was confused and hurting and I _left_ him. I told him I needed space. He begged me not to go, he held onto my fucking sleeves, and I left him.”

They’re silent for a moment. Tina keeps hugging him, letting him cry damp spots into her sweatshirt, and Newt’s hand runs soothingly across his arm.

Finally, Newt says, “Credence needs you now more than ever. If you want to leave him alone, if you really _truly_ don’t want to be with him, then you have every right to make that decision for yourself. But don’t do it for him. Don’t think that’s what he needs. He loves you, Perce, and he’s struggling. It’s understandable. He’s processing the loss of his mother along with the years and years of abuse he dealt with at her hands. This is not your fault.”

Graves nods, sobs waning to hiccups, burying his face in his knees. He feels like a little kid again, helpless and lost. He wants to be with Credence. Stupidly, selfishly, he wants the boy to comfort _him,_ to wrap him up in his skinny arms and kiss his face, to tell him that it’s okay and everything is going to be fine and nothing is going to break them apart. Nothing.

A nurse enters the room timidly. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait in the quiet room,” she tells them apologetically, “You can have it all to yourself. But we have to bring a patient in here.”

“This is Credence’s room,” Graves says, stumbling to his feet. “He’s coming back, he just—”

“Credence is going to be discharged when he’s finished with the psychiatrist,” she tells him, “He’ll be finished with his psych eval soon and they’ll give him a prescription and a referral to a more permanent psychologist.”

Graves nods, feeling lightheaded, clutching the wall for balance. Newt puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles gently, helping him walk out of the room. Tina trails behind, glancing around the room for any of Credence’s possessions. 

_He doesn’t have anything,_ Graves wants to tell her, but he can’t make his voice work. _He was naked and alone and afraid. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even bring his shoes._

“I brought Credence some clothes,” Newt says awkwardly, as if reading Graves’ lamenting mind. “I figure he’s around my size.” He opens the backpack that he’s wearing and pulls out a sweatshirt, a pair of jogging pants and slip on sneakers. Graves takes them with a quiet _thank you._ He tries not to hate himself too much for not thinking of it himself.

They go back into the quiet room where Graves had waited to be let in to see Credence. It’s like time is slowed immensely within those four walls, and they all sit in silence. Waiting. After nearly half an hour, there’s a knock, and then a woman steps in. Graves is on his feet instantly.

“Are you Percival Graves?”

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Is Credence okay?”

“Dr Lestrange,” she shakes Graves’ hand. “I’m a psychiatrist. Credence is ready to be discharged. He’s been given a dose of a mild tranquilizer so he’s a little bit drowsy.”

“A _tranquilizer?_ ” Graves says, voice catching in his throat. “What does he—”

“Credence was experiencing some anxiety,” she interrupts, speaking in a soothing but firm voice. She’s young, but she already carries the tone of somebody who knows what she’s doing and won't hear a word otherwise. “This is normal. Hisnew medication should treat both his depression and his anxiety."

“He isn’t _depressed_ ,” Graves sputters. “He’s going through something, he—”

“Mr Graves,” the doctor says, “Credence is experiencing many symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, as well as severe anxiety and panic disorder. He shows clear signs of somebody who is being abused.”

Graves doesn’t miss her use of _is being_ rather than _has been._ He shuts his mouth, staring pointedly at the door rather than her face. 

“He’s going to need to see a psychologist on a regular basis.” Dr Lestrange pulls a form from the clipboard she’s holding and hands it over. “Credence designated you as his support person, and gave permission for your involvement in his treatment. I’m referring Credence to Dr Lily Potter. She’s Dr James Potter’s wife — he was Credence’s doctor tonight, correct?” Graves nods, taking the form. “She’s a practicing psychologist and specializes in PTSD and anxiety in young adults. She’s worked with many abuse victims. It should be a good fit.”

“Okay,” Graves says, his voice very weak, breath not coming easily. “Can I see him now?”

Dr Lestrange smiles. “Come with me.”

Newt and Tina murmur that they’ll be out at the doors and Graves follows the doctor down the hall. She stops at an office and the door opens to reveal Credence sitting in the chair in front of the desk, head bowed, hands clasped together in his lap. He’s still wearing the hospital gown and the stitched up cuts stand out in bright contrast on his bare arms.

“Credence?” He says hesitantly, approaching his chair. Credence looks up, eyes glassy and rimmed with red. His face is blotchy pink and his hair is stuck to the sides of his face. He’s been crying.

“Hi,” he says, his voice thick. “I’m sorry, Percy.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Graves breathes, and pulls Credence into his arms as he stands. He’s careful not to squeeze him too tightly, wary of his arms, holding him delicately around the shoulders and pressing his lips to the top of his head. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You two can pick up Credence’s prescription in the pharmacy downstairs,” Dr Lestrange tells them. “And I've called Dr Potter to let her know you’ll be making an appointment. Call as soon as possible and she’ll be sure to get you in quickly.”

“Thank you,” Credence says in a small voice, barely looking up. Graves puts an arm around his trembling form and guides him out of the room.

“Newt brought you some clothes,” Graves tells him. “Do you want to get changed?” 

Credence nods and Graves hands them over, waiting outside the bathroom as Credence gets dressed. Newt is taller than Credence but nearly as thin, so the pants fit him well, the sweatshirt dwarfing him slightly in its already oversized shape. He hides his hands in the sleeves, head pointed downward as they leave the hospital. Credence waits outside with Tina and Newt while Graves gets his prescription from the hospital pharmacy: Tylenol 3 for the pain and, feeding Graves’ rising apprehension, a two month supply of Zoloft. He tries not to think about that for now.

Tina and Newt drive them home and both get out of the car to hug Credence, and then Graves, and then make them promise to call soon. Graves thanks them quietly and can feel them watching as he leads Credence to the door.

 

——

 

Graves helps Credence settle in on the couch with a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate. He wants to put him in bed but remembers the gory scene in the bathroom and thinks better of it. He kisses Credence’s face and hands him the remote, the Netflix welcome screen lighting up the TV, promising to be right back and heading into the bedroom.

He crosses over to the bathroom door very slowly, steeling himself, breathing in for three, out for three. He doesn’t feel even close to prepared to do this, but he can’t risk Credence walking in and panicking at the sight. And so he musters up every bit of bravery he has left and steps inside.

The white tile floor is stained with a watercolour wash of pink and red and brown, slippery with the water still left from what spilled over the tub. He should have thought to drain it. The bath is still full, the water hazy and dark, and Graves is hit with a wave of nausea. He turns both knobs of the sink until they flow at full power, praying that the sound will drown him out as he falls to his knees, staining his pants with blood, heaving over the toilet. His stomach is empty; he hasn’t eaten since hours before he left the hotel, and he throws up nothing but acidic fluid that burns his throat. He gags, gripping the edges of the toilet, breathing hard. Saliva drips down his chin and he wipes it on his sleeve, finally falling back on his haunches and holding his face in his hands.

Graves takes a few moments to collect himself and then gets up on unsteady legs, turning back to the bathtub. He steps gingerly across the floor, trying and failing to avoid the lakes of bloody water, managing to pull the plug and open the drain without getting sick again. He steps back, watching the bloody water empty slowly, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. As it finishes draining he sees something small glinting under the bright bathroom lights. He reaches in carefully and pulls out a small blade that looks like it was popped off of an x-acto knife. His head swims at the sight and he forces it back.

He tries to think of it in logical terms, step by step. First, he has to find the bleach and the cleaner. Then he has to find a rag. Next, he has to clean all the blood off the floor. He’ll clean the inside of the tub last. 

The bleach and cleaner are in the cupboard under the sink, along with a few rags. He pours out some bleach and water onto the floor, hoping he isn’t doing it wrong, because he has no real experience cleaning massive amounts of blood off the fucking bathroom floor. _Fuck._ He gets down on his knees and starts scrubbing. He unscrews the top of the spray bottle cleaner and pours it all over the floor and then keeps going. The darker stains are stubborn but they eventually start to lift and he swears under his breath, scrubbing harder, and the tears come quickly and spill to the floor, mixing into the swirl of blood and bleach. His shoulders shake and he keeps going, trying to calm himself down but failing miserably.

“Percy?”

_Fuck._

He looks up and sees Credence standing wide-eyed in the doorway, staring at him, face ghost-white.

“Credence, go back to the living room.” Percy tries to sound firm but his voice shakes, betraying him, tears still blurring his eyes. The boy doesn’t move, just stands there, looking absolutely heartbroken. 

“Credence,” he repeats, more forceful now. “Go back to the fucking living room. _Please._ ”

Credence turns and stumbles away and Graves feels guilty instantly. He’s already snapping at him. He can’t do this.

He stops crying and finishes cleaning, the floor and then the bathtub, until it’s spotless and smells like chemicals and not at all like the insides of Credence's arms. He wraps the tiny blade in a face towel, still dark with Credence’s blood, and tucks it away in the drawer of his desk.

Credence is curled up and wrapped in the blanket on the couch when Graves walks out, eyes glued to the TV screen.

“Whatcha watching?” Graves asks lightly, sitting down beside him but not touching him.

Credence shrugs, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. “I just clicked the first thing I saw.”

“Hm.” Graves moves closer and tugs at the corner of the blanket. “Can I come in here with you?”

Finally Credence looks at him, smiling shyly. “Okay.” He pulls the blanket over further and lets Graves slip under it, folding Credence into his side. The boy winces when his arm gets trapped between their bodies and Graves jumps, swearing.

“I’m sorry, baby. Do you want your pills?” 

Credence nods, arm tucked back against his chest, breathing slowly through his mouth. Graves gets him a Tylenol 3 and a glass of water and settles back in beside him. He  pulls Credence in close to his side, careful to avoid his arms. 

“I’m sorry, puppy. For everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick reminder that none of this is from experience, nor has it been extensively researched. protocols/standard practices etc may be exaggerated or entirely ignored for the sake of the story and the future plotlines. this is a subplot within a much larger story. everything with a grain of salt, etc, etc
> 
> thank you, as always, for sticking with the story <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting a little early cause of holiday stuff. merry christmas to all who celebrate! have some sadness and gloom on your nice holiday weekend.

The medication makes Credence feel foggy. He doesn’t really think anymore, but he doesn’t have to. Percy watches his every move; Percy takes care of him. He lets him stay in bed, cooks for him when he agrees to eat, reads to him in bed with one hand rested on his forehead. Credence stares up at him with wide, blinking eyes. Percy always looks so sad.

He’s not very happy. Credence can tell. He doesn’t joke the way he used to and he’s always on edge. Constantly worrying. Constantly watching. He doesn’t let Credence close the door when he goes to the bathroom. He doesn’t let him out of his sight at all. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it makes him miserable. It’s embarrassing, all of it, but in a very distant way that doesn’t quite register like it probably should.

Credence wishes he could have a little bit of time alone. It’s not like he’s going to rip his stitchesopen. It’s not like he’s going to throw himself out the window. But he would like to lay in bed and read a book without being watched. He would like to take a shower by himself so he can reach down, jerk himself off, rough and quick, relieve some of the pressure that pushes insistently at his core. Sometimes late at night when Percy is snoring softly beside him he angles his hips down and rubs himself against the sheets, but it would be too embarrassing to make a mess for Percy to find in the morning. So he always leaves himself panting and desperate, curling up and pushing the heel of his hand into his dick, denying himself. It’s been so long since Percy has touched him for any reason other than to wash him, to dress him. When Percy runs the warm washcloth across his chest, his thighs, he feels himself growing hard, face burning with humiliation when Percy doesn’t even reach to touch him. Simply kisses his cheek and then fetches him a towel.

He wants to be touched. Wants at least for Percy to take him in hand, however gentle and careful it may be. Just _something._ He won’t, though, as if the act itself could drive Credence straight back to insanity.

After a few months of taking the pills, of Percy’s refusal to touch him, he stops getting hard. Whether it’s the medication or the neglect, he doesn’t know. He no longer perks up at Percy’s touch, no longer tries to surreptitiously rut against the bed late at night when he thinks the man is asleep. 

Tina and Newt come to visit sometimes, but they always look like they’re biting their tongues. Their jokes are all censored; the concerned sadness never leaves their eyes. It makes Credence uncomfortable.

The first time Percy lets him be alone is when Luna comes to visit. He tells them he’ll be back in a while, giving Luna a meaningful look as he leaves the apartment. Credence collapses back into the couch with a sigh.

“He’s really worried, huh?”

“He won’t leave me alone,” Credence says miserably. “Not even to shower. Not even to use the bathroom. He doesn’t trust me. When he takes me to my appointments he walks me right up to the door and then sits in the waiting room until I come out.”

Luna gives him a small smile. “He’s terrified to lose you. He almost did. He won’t let it happen again.”

“I’m not gonna do it again. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says absently. “I believe you.” 

It doesn’t sound very convincing.

“I like my therapist,” he offers. “She’s really nice. She says she doesn’t think I need to be on medication for much longer. She’s going to talk to the psychiatrist.”

“Do you feel better when you take it?”

He shakes his head, frowning. “Not really. It makes everything blurry. I can’t think.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“She thinks I should just get some pills for anxiety. And then I can just take them when I feel anxious. Not all the time, like this one.”

They’re silent for a few minutes. Credence misses what it used to be like with Luna, when they would talk breathlessly for hours, always too much to say. Never not enough. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” Credence reaches for the remote, flicking on the TV.

“Sure.” Luna smiles and joins him on the couch, curling up at his side, taking one of his hands and holding it in her lap, her warm fingers encircling his closed fist. She leans into him and her soft hair tickles the side of his face. He feels more comfortable than he has in weeks.

Halfway through Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, one of Credence’s favourites, Percy returns. He smiles warmly at the sight of the two of them cuddled up on the couch and offers up a paper bag stamped with _Kowalski Quality Baked Goods._ “I brought you guys some donuts.”

“Thanks, Percy,” Luna takes the bag from him and plucks out a powdered donut, handing the rest over to Credence. “Have you guys thought about re-signing with Republic?”

“Uh. Haven’t really talked about it,” Percy admits. “We’ve still got some time. We’re technically still under this contract until November, even though we’ve already released the records. Once it runs out we can sign back on or decide to do something else, I guess.”

_I don’t know if we’ll ever play music again_ , he doesn’t say. But it hangs in the air around them.

“I should probably get going,” Luna says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Credence can’t tell who she’s talking to. Once she leaves, he walks over to the bathroom, Percy trailing behind him.

“Can I be alone?” He asks quietly. “Please?” Percy opens his mouth to protest but Credence looks at him desperately. “I’m not going to do anything. I just need a few minutes.”

Finally, Percy nods, heading back into the kitchen. Credence shuts the bathroom door behind him with one shaky hand clutching the cool metal doorknob. He locks the door and strips down naked, standing in front of the wide mirror, a snapshot of himself from the top of his tangled mess of hair to the mid-point of his scrawny thighs. 

Credence considers himself in the mirror. The sharp jut of bones showing through skin. Paper thin. Paper white. The ladder of his ribs. The red brushstroke lines down his arms. His eyes, encircled in violet, half-lidded and dead.

“You okay, baby?”

Percy’s voice, calling through the door. Credence bites his lip and closes his eyes. “I’m fine.”

He has no right to be so sick of Percy’s worrying and hovering. It’s his own fault. He tried to _kill_ himself, of course Percy’s going to be on edge, of course he’s going to keep a close watch and try to make sure he doesn't do it again. He's so selfish. Years ago, he would have done anything to have somebody who cares about him this much. Now he just wants to be alone.

Still staring into the mirror, looking himself dead in the eyes, he takes his limp dick in hand and starts to pull on it fruitlessly. It barely responds past a few feeble twitches.

“Come _on_ ,” he says, barely a whisper, low enough that it’s lost under the hum of the fan. He tugs harder, spreading his stance a little, jaw set tight in determination. His body takes a long time to react, but after a few minutes he begins to harden. He lets out a soft sigh of relief, tipping his head back, closing his eyes.

It doesn’t really feel good, that’s the thing.

He’s managed to get hard, managed to get the blood to flow, but it’s more of a dull memory of pleasure than pleasure itself. It kind of hurts, really, his dick a little raw and sensitive from his not-so-gentle coaxing. He strokes himself faster, harder. If he can just come, maybe he’ll settle down. Maybe he can relax for the first time in weeks.

He can’t do it, though. After ten minutes he gives up. Maybe it’s the knowledge that Percy is waiting for him outside, probably ready to break down the door at any given moment. Maybe it’s the uncomfortable position he’s in, staring himself down in the mirror. Maybe it’s the medication, smoothing the harsh edges of every emotion, holding him back from any manner of intensity.

He sags against the wall, letting go of his useless cock. He tries to think back to his first year with Percy, when essentially all they did was fuck, when he was constantly drained, constantly sated, his body floating in a perpetual haze of pleasure and satisfaction. That all seems so far away, now. 

_You know why,_ snarls the malicious voice in the back of his head. _Ask him to beat you again. That’ll get you going. Haven’t you noticed you’re only satisfied when he hurts you? How long has it been since you came without it? Long before Ma died. Long before any excuses you can make._

Credence shudders, sliding down the wall to sit his bare ass on the freezing tile floor, little valleys of goosebumps spreading up his legs and arms. He rests his chin on his kneecaps, bonier than ever. Percy has been _weighing_ him. Face falling every time he sees the drop in numbers. It’s disturbing how much of a child he’s become. Maybe years ago he would have loved it, but now it sends a needling discomfort throughout his body. _Daddy._

“Credence?”

Credence bites down hard on his knee. Squeezes his eyes shut. Takes in a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Mhm.” He tries not to let his voice sound weak. It does anyway.

“Do you need anything?”

“No,” he says softly. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He hears the frantic change in Percy’s tone. “Oh, can I just—”

_ Fuck it. Really. _

Credence clambers to his feet, overtaken by a sudden wave of anger. He throws open the shower door and snatches every shaving razor from the little soap shelf, knocking down bottles of shampoo in the process. Opens drawers, gets the razors out of there as well. The scissors. Even the nail clippers. He swings open the bathroom door and holds his hands out to Percy, breathing hard, glaring. “Here.”

Percy looks mildly surprised. He glances down the long plane of Credence’s body, taking in his naked form, his reddened cock, his wobbly legs. After a moment he accepts the handful of tools. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. Credence slams the door behind him.

In the shower he sobs, face in the wall, trying hard to keep quiet enough that Percy won’t hear him over the rush of water. Even with his ear pressed to the door. He bites down at the crook of his arm, choking on his wails, face twisted up, body hunched unnaturally. The water is scalding and he only turns it up hotter, body twitching, enjoying the way it burns through layers of his skin.

Self-harm. Well, maybe he’s entitled to it. He’s taken enough from the rest of the world.

He stays in the shower for a very long time. After his body runs dry of tears and he’s sullenly hiccuping against his hands, he washes his hair and body, slowly and carefully. He tries once more in vain to get himself off. No luck.

Credence walks out of the bathroom thirty minutes later. He’s honestly surprised he doesn’t find Percy waiting dutifully in the doorway, but rather on the living room couch, bowl of cereal in hand, something playing on TV. It’s strikingly _normal_ , and for a brief moment Credence feels a blanket of relief settle over him. 

“Come here, puppy.” Percy sets down his bowl and opens his arms. Credence tucks the towel tighter around his waist and trots over to join him, flopping down into his arms and curling up, burrowing his face in Percy’s neck. His hair drips steady and cool, dampening Percy’s collar. 

“You smell good,” Percy murmurs. “So clean and fresh.”

Credence hums, breathing soft through his mouth against Percy’s neck. Percy’s hand squeezes at his hip.

“You’ve got an appointment this afternoon, right?” It’s a warning disguised as a casual question. Credence sighs.

“At six.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No, it’s okay. I want to walk.”

“I’ll drive you,” Percy repeats. “I won’t come in. But let me drive you.”

Credence doesn’t have it in him to argue. Percy pulls into the Starbucks drive-thru on the way, buying him the biggest size of the sweetest drink. He sips it acquiescently as they arrive at his therapist's building.

“I hope I’ll be able to find it without you there to show me.” It’s meant as a dry joke, but it comes out flat. Mean. Percy says nothing. Credence looks at him, wide-eyed, pokes him in the arm. “Percy. Hey. I’m sorry.”

“I'm doing my best, Credence."

Credence bites down rough on his lip and stares out the window, blinking hard. “I know.”

 

——

 

  
Dr Lily Potter’s office has yellow walls. Credence has taken to staring at them whenever she asks him difficult questions, focusing his eyes on the bright sun-ray paint, trying to force it to improve his mood. Today, he casts his eyes up and down from the line where the ceiling meets the wall to the silvery vent to the floor.

She’s asking difficult questions again.

“Credence?”

“Hmm?” He starts out of his daze. She smiles gently.

“I asked why it bothers you when Percy hovers.”

“Oh.” He looks down at his hands like they’re going to offer him an easy answer, something that will make him seem less crazy. “I don’t know. I guess it just makes me feel like I’m ruining his life. I’m a burden on him.”

“Does he tell you that?”

“No,” he says hastily. “No. Of course not.”

“So why do you feel that way?”

“Cause I do?” Credence says, a hint of desperation on his voice. “I don’t know, cause he has no life anymore? He spends all his time watching over me and making sure I don’t get upset. I can’t even go to the bathroom by myself.”

Her lip quirks up a little. “And that upsets you because you want privacy?”

He winces. “We’ve always been… really close. He’s always taken care of me, I guess. But now it doesn’t seem like it’s because he wants to. It feels like he’s doing it because he has to.”

She nods, tapping the end of her pen against the page of her notebook. He wants to snatch it from her hands, read her shorthand cursive, see what kind of crazy she really believes he is. “Credence, you know you can be completely honest here, right? And I can’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

He nods, mute. 

“When you first came to see me, Credence, you had some injuries. Why don’t we talk about that?”

“You mean where I. Where I cut…?” He mumbles, tugging at his sleeve. The scars burn like harsh reminders.

“No, I mean the bruises,” she says gently. “On your arms and on your chest.”

“Oh.” His face burns. He stares hard at the floor. “It was an accident.”

“What was the accident?” She prompts. He can tell she doesn’t believe him.

“I… I fell.” It comes out flat and weak and he curses himself inwardly for not coming up with something better. Stupid. _Stupid._

“You told your nurses that you were assaulted.”

“Oh,” he says again, in a very small and cracking voice. He doesn’t remember.

“Credence,” she says softly. “You can tell me anything. Anything at all. I’m not here to judge you or to tell you what to do. I’m here to guide you to your own conclusions and help you with any emotional hurdles along the way. Okay?”

“He hits me,” Credence blurts. She doesn’t look surprised or taken aback at all. He quickly corrects himself, voice shaking. “Um. Not like. Not like how that sounds. I mean, I ask him to. And he does. You know?”

He glances at her quickly before looking back at his hands.

“What does one of these scenarios look like?” She asks. “When he hits you.”

“Um.” He clears his throat, foot tapping double time on the carpeted floor. “Um. Like, after my Ma died, I was so… lost. And I couldn’t feel things anymore, not the way I used to. And I just wanted to feel something. I couldn’t stop thinking about him beating me the way she used to, with. With my belt.” He avoids looking anywhere in the general vicinity of her face. “So I asked him to, and at first he didn’t want to, but then he did. And that’s how I got those bruises.”

When he finally looks up, she does seem a little alarmed. He feels oddly proud that he managed to break her facade of untouchable calm. 

“Is that the only time?”

He shakes his head slowly, falling into a rhythm, getting the hang of telling her these things. It starts to feel good to let it pour out, all the things he never says. “It started before that. A couple years ago. He’s always had a temper, he would get upset with me, and we had… when we had sex it could get rough, you know?” She nods, reassuring. “So then I asked him to hit me. Like, when we had sex. And I have a safe word, but I would never use it.”

“Why not?”

He looks at her helplessly. “Because I love him. Because I want whatever he wants to give me.”

“Credence,” she says gently. “You know that isn’t healthy, right?”

“He started to get jealous,” he says, ignoring her, continuing on with his confession, his expulsion of every pent up feeling from the past three years. “And he would hurt me, but not just when we had sex. And I loved it. I’ve always loved it. I still think about it now, I… I still want it now.”

He finishes in a whisper and meets her eyes. They look at each other in silence for a moment.

“I think you know this is an abusive relationship, Credence.”

He shakes his head. No. _No._

“No,” he says, but he's trembling. “No, it’s me. It’s my problem. He never would have done this if I…”

“Do you feel unsafe?”

“What?”

“Do you feel unsafe,” she repeats. “Do you ever feel unsafe in your home? Unsafe when you’re with Percy?”

“No, _no_ , not with Percy. Percy keeps me safe.” She writes something down and his voice starts to verge on hysterical. “What?”

“I’m just taking notes,” she says soothingly. “It’s okay, Credence.”

But he’s already crying, shoulders shaking, folding in on himself. He wishes she would get up and sit by his side, pull him into her arms, cradle him like a child. 

“I wish I had a mother,” he says, and the floodgates break.

She lets him cry for a while, and it’s oddly calming rather than humiliating to sit there and sob while she watches. When he settles down, she speaks again. 

“What do you think about when you think about your mother?”

“Pain. Being ashamed. Punishment.”

“But you miss her.”

He nods miserably. “I think her being... gone, it just makes me realize more how I never had a mother. And now I really want one.”

“Do you have any friends, Credence?”

“Tina and Newt,” he whispers.

“Any friends you didn’t meet through Percy?” The question isn’t meant to be accusatory but it rings through Credence’s head as a harsh attack.

“Luna.”

“Is Percy involved with her in any way?”

He thinks back to their tour, to Percy directing him, _I want you to fuck her_ , controlling and manipulating him, confusing him with his duality. Never certain if he was going to be praised or punished.

“I guess so.” His voice is barely making a sound now. He’s curling up more and more, trying to disappear into the plush armchair.

“It sounds to me like you don’t have any friends who aren’t involved with Percy in some way.”

“I didn’t say that,” he says defensively. Desperately. It's a trap; she’s pushed him into a corner and is waiting to see if he’ll fight or flee.

“Percy controls every aspect of your life.” Her voice is kind but firm. “He has access to your money, your friends, everything you own.”

“It’s not _like_ that—”

“I’m not telling you what to do, Credence. Just think about this, okay?”

His protests die in his throat. His mouth is dry and his head hurts. A glance up at the clock tells him his time is up. Percy is waiting in the parking lot. His mind is clouded with everything Dr Potter said, everything he admitted, and how different it sounded coming out of his mouth than it did when it was stored away in his brain.

He’s silent on the ride home, offering one-word murmurs or nods in response to all of Percy’s question. When Percy reaches out a hand to rest on his knee, he flinches. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a lil shorter, but the last two chapters of this fic will be posted friday and saturday instead of friday and monday :)

Newt calls early one morning in October. His voice is thick with tears and dim through the phone line, as though he’s holding it at a distance, pulling back even from blocks away.

“My father passed last night.”

He and Tina will be moving to England next week to be closer to his mother. Tina has no ties here, not anymore. Neither of them do, now that Macusa’s contract is up. 

“We’ll come back,” Newt reassures him, but Graves knows a lie when he hears one, and this is a weak one at that. There’s no reason for it. It’s not as if things will ever return to how they were.

Credence cries when Graves tells him, but he’s always fucking crying, so there’s no real gauge for his sadness anymore. Graves thinks back to their last night in Sussex after Newt and Tina’s wedding, when they sat on the beach and Credence confessed that before they met, he’d never really felt sad. He’d never felt happy, either, but that’s besides the point. Maybe the numbness is better. That’s what they’re trying to do with the drugs, after all, the antidepressants and anti-anxieties and anti-emotions. Anti-everything. At first Graves had been opposed but now he’s all for it, serving Credence his drugs on a silver plate just to get the kid to calm the fuck down.

He’s doped up constantly on his anxiety pills, and Graves doesn't mind handing them over, cause it keeps him drowsy and quiet and easier to handle. He feels a little guilty, but he knew kids who were popping the shit like candy back in high school in much higher doses than this. Credence will be fine.

In the beginning, he’d been too careful. Overprotective. Helicoptering Credence’s every move. It got tired for both of them, and so he’d started letting Credence live his own life again. As much of it as he has. The kid hasn’t tried to kill himself again, so Graves figures he’s doing a decent job.

Back then, he was afraid to even touch him, afraid to do anything to set him off. But it’s been four months and Credence is medicated, in therapy, and eager to tell Graves every single comment his therapist has about the supposed _toxicity_ and _unhealthy habits_  of their relationship. He’d like to go in with Credence sometime and give that fucking doctor a piece of his mind.

_Maybe that alone makes her right,_ he thinks grimly.

He can’t find it in himself to care anymore. It hurts to think back to his first couple years with Credence, how happy they’d been, how new and exciting everything it was. Everything brand new for Credence, and the concept of real feelings a fresh novelty for Graves. Now it’s just dead. They’ve been dragging it along for so long that it’s lost its colour, the edges are scraped raw from being dragged through Hell for the past year.

Graves fucks him now, but Credence rarely comes. Rarely even gets hard. He says it’s okay, whimpers quiet _I love you_ s _,_ lets Graves take whatever he needs with no complaints. Sometimes he’s eager and moaning softly and Graves sees little glimpses of the boy he’d been when they first met: so new to the physical pleasures of his body, so insatiable and lusty.

Now he’s a shell, barely there, but he’s got a body to fuck and that’s enough for Graves.

It sounds so awful when he thinks about it like that.

He still does his part. He drives Credence to his appointments. He makes sure the boy eats at least one meal a day. He keeps track of his medication. He holds him while they sleep. He washes him when they shower, his hair and his thinning body. 

They don’t really talk. Not the way they used to.

He’d do anything to go back to that time, when they would lay in bed all day just talking:Graves recounting stories of his rebellious teenage years, Credence divulging secrets he’d heard from churchgoers. Connecting their childhoods, the entireties of their lives.

_I wish I’d known you when I was a little kid._

Credence had said that. A whispered confession. Graves felt the weight of the statement, everything it meant. A lament of lost experiences, missed chances, a normal adolescence. 

_I know you now,_ Graves had said, kissing his temple. _That’s enough._

Now, he thinks, maybe it isn’t. Maybe if Credence hadn’t been flung from a loveless and abusive home into Graves’ own temperamental hands, ones that are ill-equipped to handle somebody with such a deeply rooted history of trauma, unprepared to offer up enough of himself to make Credence feel safe… well. There’s no use wondering, because it’s too late for that.

He’s twenty three now, and already maladjusted, dragged into a bright and shiny world and then right back out of it, thrown from abuser to abuser, some sickening game of monkey in the middle, only there’s nobody in the centre to catch him. Credence keeps on hitting the ground.

“Do you think we’ll record another album?”

Graves nearly laughs at the complete and utter delusion of the question. Credence looks so hopeful, so deep in his denial that he’d even think to ask that question.

“Tina and Newt won’t come back any time soon,” Graves says, in lieu of any real answer. “That much I can guarantee.”

He’s silent after that, staring out the window of the car as Graves drives him home from another session with Dr Potter. He’d avoided giving any real account of his appointment, nodding or offering one-word responses, sounding very far away. He still goes once a week. Graves can feel him drifting farther every time.

Autumn has brought an indelible chill to New York, the air sharp against their faces as they climb the steps to their apartment building. Credence backs Graves into the corner of the porch, taking his face in both soft palms and kissing him, slow and open-mouthed, except it barely feels like a shadow of their earlier days. Their bodies are there but not their hearts, not even their heads.

“I love you,” Credence murmurs.

“I love you too."


	11. Chapter 11

_November, 2014._

 

Percy is shouting again. It rings in Credence’s ears like the white noise after they play a show, nights he forgets his little orange earplugs, flooding in and overtaking everything. Dull roar. No words, only sound. His eyes are cast on the floor, face set in a hard frown, hands hugging his elbows. 

He fucked up again. He always does, there’s always _something_ , something stupid that he says or something he can’t make his dumb brain understand. He tries, he tries so hard, but it’s never enough.

He can barely remember what it is this time. It all blends together after a while. He’d forgotten to do something, mail an important form, Percy had asked him over and over again. Reminded him as he’d left for the day. Credence had nodded, confirmed, but still forgotten. Stupid. _Stupid._

“And maybe if you would fucking _do_ something all day instead of sitting on your ass playing video games and sleeping, maybe if you’d fucking _write_ something we’d be ready to—”

“Can you stop being so fucking mean?”

Credence doesn’t curse. Well, maybe he does on the rare occasion when repeating something he’s heard, explaining a story. Someone else’s syntax slipping from his mouth. Now, though, he’s angry. He can still mail the form. It will only be a day late. It isn’t worth this screaming, this hurting.

Percy looks taken aback for a moment before his expression turns dark again. “Can you stop being so _fuck_ ing stupid?”

He pronounces the word slowly. Carefully. Mocking Credence’s use of it, his feeble attempt at intimidation. Percy is drunk, of course, he’s always fucking drunk.

The first time he called Credence stupid, Credence ran away for four days. Couldn’t bear the thought of facing him. The second time had come two years later, after Credence had practically set the apartment on fire trying to make dinner. Then the third, the fourth, the fifth…

Percy is muttering something, voice dripping with intoxication, barely discernible insults spit out in the direction of the hard living room floor.

“What?” Credence’s voice is scratchy and weak. 

“I _said,_ ” Percy says in a violent slur, “you think you can just do fuck all now cause you got a couple good fuckin’ reviews. Let me tell you something, kid, the world isn’t like that. You could still be stuck in that fucking God-fearing dump. You’re lucky I dragged you out of there. Cause you were the runt of the fucking litter, the ugly little puppy no one wanted, and I was _generous_ enough to take you in and this is the fuckin’ thanks I get? You think you're better than me? You don't have to work, cause everyone fawns over Credence-fucking-Barebone?”

He’s shoving Credence in the chest with each insult he hurls, and Credence feels like he’s back in middle school, bullies pushing and cornering him, except bullies he could handle. Bullies he could understand. He doesn’t care if Percy calls him ugly, or a runt, or even stupid, anymore. But the tone of his voice is verging dangerously on the edge of _I don’t love you_ territory, and that is not a place Credence is ready to visit.

“Percy,” he says quietly. Percy just grins, manic and cruel.

“You wanna say something to me, baby?”

Credence steels himself. Sets his gaze on Percy, won’t look away, won’t back down. Not this time. “Remember when you said you’d stop drinking? How long did that last, a few months?”

The man’s face is unrecognizable. It strikes fear so deep into Credence that the boy gulps. Wishes he could reach out and grab the words he’d just said, hovering mid air, pull them back into himself. Cancel it out.

“Remember when you turned my life into a fucking nightmare, Credence?” Percy hisses and it’s worse than shouting, worse than screaming at the top of his lungs, worse than if he’d hit him. Credence wishes he would hit him. “Do you realize I spend every waking fucking _moment_ on edge, watching out for you, making sure you don’t get scared or upset? Cause God forbid I fuck up, God forbid I snap at you and you go slice your fucking wrists open again.”

Credence feels acidity rise in his throat and he swallows. He feels faintly dizzy, the kind of lightheadedness that used to come when Ma hit him just a little too hard. He opens his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but Percy isn’t finished.

“Oh, but you won’t do that again, right? Because you’re doped up constantly on your sweet little cocktail of medication. You’ll never write another song and you’ll never have a fucking personality but at least you won’t kill yourself. Not like you’re already half-dead or anything.”

“Percy…”

Percy lunges at him, toppling him over onto the bed, lips hitting lips hard. Teeth on teeth. Hand on his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Credence moans against the tongue that pushes into his mouth. Percy’s hands are ripping the buttons of his shirt frantically, tugging it off of him, pulling his own over his head and tossing it to the floor. He kisses Credence impossibly deeper and Credence can taste him, so good, so warm, so _Percy._

“I love you,” he whimpers.

“I love you too.” Percy flips him over and yanks his pants down in one swift movement and then he’s inside him with two fingers, stretching too fast but Credence doesn’t care. Only half-slick but Credence likes the pain. It reminds him that it’s real.

And then he’s being filled, violated, overcome with Percy. He thrusts into him, bottoming out straight away, and Credence’s scream is muffled by the pillow he bites into. Percy growls above him, pulling him up by the hair and fucking him into the mattress, hard and unrelenting, until Credence is choking and hyperventilating, trying to catch his breath.

“Ah — Percy, _hurts_ ,” he gasps, screwing up his face in pain, feeling like he’s being split in half. “Please—”

“You’ve taken worse,” Percy mutters, slamming into him again. He’s hard and burning, cock trapped between his body and the mattress, the only friction he’s getting being the circumstantial rutting from Percy’s thrusts. He tries to reach under himself but Percy catches his movement and grabs his wrists, pinning them above his head.

“Fuck, let me—” Credence pants, trying to twist out of his grip. Percy squeezes hard until Credence whines.

“I hate you,” he sobs. “Fuck you, Percy, I fucking hate you.”

Percy doesn’t say a word, just holds him down and thrusts harder. After a moment he pulls out and flips Credence over.

For one single second, Credence lets himself believe that Percy will be gentle, that he’s turning him over to kiss him, to hold him and touch him, whisper soft words against his lips, _iloveyoupuppymybeautifulboy,_ make him come and pull him close until he falls asleep. For one single second, Credence tells himself it’s different. 

Percy straddles Credence’s chest and stares at him with violent intensity, breathing hard. He grabs his cock, hard and red and dripping, and strokes himself until he comes all over Credence’s face, his cheeks and chin and parted lips, hair and lashes, blurring his left eye. Credence stays very still, breathing shallow, letting his tongue come out to slowly lick his lips. Bitter and salty. His insides are burning. He wants to come, badly.

But he stays there, like a good boy, even when Percy gets up and walks away, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Stays still and quiet, letting the cum dry on his face, not even bothering to wipe it from his eyelid. Maybe Percy will come clean him off. He reaches his hand down and wraps it around his dick, not moving, just holding. It’s so hard it feels bruised with wanting. 

Percy comes out of the bathroom in fresh underwear and stands beside the bed, looking down at Credence with a perplexing mix of passion and disdain. Credence admires the man’s body — for as much as he hates him, he loves him, and he’s hopelessly attracted to him. He can’t imagine ever wanting to touch or be touched by anybody else. His defined chest, his strong arms, his chiselled face and wave of hair that he pushes back with his hand. 

Credence looks at him hopefully. He can’t even imagine what he looks like right now, skin caked with dried cum, dishevelled and desperate, skin patchy and red. Percy sighs and gets into bed, pulling him roughly into his lap. Credence goes, slack as a ragdoll, relieved when Percy keeps him settled between his legs and circles his cock with his long, warm fingers. His breath hitches when Percy starts to stroke him and his head lolls forward, chin to his chest, watching the man’s hand move against him through half-open eyes. Percy pulls hard and fast, urging him toward his orgasm. It’s bordering on pain and it’s just enough. Credence comes moments later, hips stuttering, crying out softly.

Percy doesn’t stop.

He’s done this before, of course, experimented and tested him, seeing how far he can push Credence’s body, how much he can get out of him. But tonight he’s so tired, oversensitive and aching from the inside out. It’s too much.

“Percy,” he mumbles, trying to shift out of his hands. “Can’t.”

Percy ignores him, keeps him held down, coaxing him into another orgasm. His body clenching, screaming at him. He’s covered in cum, on his belly and chest and face, sticky and itching. Percy still doesn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes rolling. “ _Percy._ ”

The third time, he comes dry, nothing left to offer. It doesn’t feel good anymore. Percy releases him, mercifully, and they both collapse into bed. Credence is too tired to care how filthy he is. Percy moves up behind him and wraps him in his arms, pulling him tight against his body.

“Please don’t leave me,” Credence whispers, his voice nearly lost in the whirr of the fan, the noise of the street floating in through the open window.

Percy squeezes him tighter, lips warm and damp against the back of his neck. He doesn’t respond.

 

——

 

Credence can’t really remember what it was like in the beginning. The excitement is still there, except it comes with a cold fear now. The passion remains but it’s transformed into anger and conflict. The sex is still there, except it’s not as loving as it used to be, not as caring and tender. Percy takes what he wants from him, and sometimes Credence gets what he wants too, but that’s never the point.

Dr Potter keeps telling him he has _options._ Credence hates it. The only reason he’s ever had options in his life is because of Percy. Before Percy showed up, before Percy saved him, he had nothing. He was following a destiny laid out before him by Ma, not making a single choice for himself. He never had _options._

Then Percy came along, and suddenly the world was opened to him. Suddenly, he could choose: eggs or pancakes for breakfast? A black jacket or a blue one? Shopping or the movies? It overwhelmed him quickly, too much for him to process, his brain short-circuiting at every question asked. 

So Percy chose for him. Percy always made the right choices.

He agrees with Dr Potter sometimes. Like when she says that Percy shouldn’t yell at him so much. Or that he should make some friends that Percy doesn’t know, even though the thought of that is daunting.

He doesn’t agree with her when she says without saying that Credence should leave him.

The thought of not being with Percy is ludicrous. What would he do? He would sit and stare at a wall for the rest of his life. He would have nothing. He doesn’t even consider the idea. 

Part of the problem, he thinks, is that Percy never saw him as quite human. He knows he’s unlike anyone the man had ever met before: naive and pliable, both sheltered from the world and deeply scarred by the worst of it. He didn’t know any movies and he didn’t have a phone. He had no friends. He was very much a blank canvas, and a pretty one, or so Percy used to think. Falling in love with Percy meant giving him everything, meant being exactly what Percy wanted him to be. Because he had nothing else.

But the more things he found for himself, the more friendships he forged and experience he earned, the less shiny and mysterious he’s become to Percy. He’s lost his lustre. And now he’s plain and boring and unstable to boot, suicidal and an absolute nuisance. His naivety isn’t cute anymore, it’s just dumb. His neediness isn’t desirable, it’s petulant.

_I’m a person_ , he wants to scream at the statue of a man who used to love him. _Look at me. See me. I’m finally real, I’m finally a person, and I want you to love me like this, I want you to know me. I am so excited to share myself with you and you don’t want a single part of it._

Percy grunts a _thanks_ at him when he brings him a mug of coffee, perching in the armchair across from him. 

“Can we talk about something?” Credence asks nervously. Tapping his foot against the rug. Looking at him expectantly. Percy doesn’t even look up. He sighs.

“I’m kind of busy, Cre.”

“My therapist says we should be communi—”

Percy cuts him off with a sharp laugh and his voice dies off, dejected. “Tell me more about what your therapist says about me, Credence. As if I don’t have to hear about it twenty-four-fucking-seven. I know you paint me as the monster and yourself as the helpless victim. I don’t care anymore.”

“I don’t,” Credence says, stricken. “Percy, I’m trying to make it work, I just…”

“Yeah, why don’t you go fuck your therapist, then,” Percy mutters under his breath. “God knows you’ll try to fuck anyone who’s nice to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Credence’s fingertips dig into the plush sofa cushion. He clenches his jaw.

“Luna? Draco?” Percy finally looks up and his eyes are black. Flat. “Even Newt _,_ for fuck’s sakes, I see the way you look at him—”

“You think I want to fuck _Newt?_ ” Credence’s voice is verging on hysteria. Absolute desperation. “Percy, are you crazy? Newt is my friend. I’m allowed to have friends. He’s nice to me, so I like him. Why are you so angry about that?”

“Shut up, Credence.” Percy’s voice is so dismissive. It doesn’t even rise. Credence wishes he would scream, wishes he would stand up and throw his laptop across the room, wave his arms, make himself big. Shout and cry and break things. At least that would mean he cares. This is barely a blip on his radar. A simple annoyance.

“Percy, I love you.”

“Love you too.” There’s no feeling behind the words. Robotic. Percy is back to staring at his screen as though Credence isn’t even there. 

Credence rises and slowly walks to the door, pulling on his coat. He doesn’t look back. It will hurt too much to see that Percy doesn’t even look up. 

He slams the door on the way out. Maybe someone will hear it. Maybe someone will believe that they once felt anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm soooo sorry


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter!! thank you guys for staying through the absolute misery of this story... love you all <3

Graves stands in the kitchen, the way he has so many times before. In the very centre, five tiles from the counter, five tiles from the doorway. This apartment feels different, somehow, though he’s lived here for years. How many, exactly? More than he can count. More than he can justify. It feels like everything has been the same for far too long. Maybe he should change the furniture. The ignorance of the thought almost makes him laugh.

The little plant Graves bought for Credence is still alive, against all odds, in its newest bloom on the kitchen counter. A blue orchid, a sad little flower, but miraculously it’s survived this long despite their forgetfulness and lack of attentive care. When Graves bought it, he’d read that they can live for decades if you look after them well enough. He’d had stupid thoughts of carrying it into their future home, when they’re married and living in some secluded house on the coast, away from everyone and everything else, needing only each other. How naive he’d been.

Now Graves stands at the end of a previously endless road. The kind of summery desert road where you just keep driving, and your windows are down and the music is loud and ubiquitous, and everything feels so very timeless. Like you could be anywhere.

Credence is sitting on the couch, his feet tucked beneath him, one dark curl falling loose into his eyes. He’s reading. It takes him so long to turn the fucking page and that shouldn’t make Graves angry but it _does._ Everything does. The kid has the equivalent of a University degree and he still can’t fucking read.

From his spot on the couch, Credence has no idea, of course. He’s absolutely oblivious. He’s absolutely unaware. It’s both tragic and blissful, his ignorance, and Graves wonders if it’s forged or genuine. If Credence notices Graves watching him, he doesn’t say so.

It’s been three months since Newt and Tina left. Two since the end of Macusa’s contract with Republic Records. Langdon has stopped calling; Newt and Tina have, too. Graves feels somewhat like he’s living in a post-apocalyptic world where he and Credence are the only survivors. His moments of refuge: going for drinks with Sera, walking out to get a coffee in the morning and running into someone from high school, his brief texts with Sirius — these are the only things that remind him he’s a person. 

Credence doesn’t make him feel like a person. With Credence, he feels like a machine. Wake up, make sure Credence eats breakfast and takes his pills. Watch him all day. Make sure he eats his dinner and takes more pills. Put him to sleep. Wake up and do it all over again. He doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore, he has a child. Credence doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore, he has a violent captor, who wants so badly to care for him the way he should but _can’t._

Graves wasn’t made for this. He knows that.

The kid’s been in therapy for the better part of a year and doesn’t seem any better for it. Except maybe he is, and maybe the inevitable end they’re verging on is a sign of that. Maybe Credence needs to be away from him if he’s ever going to heal. Graves moves the thought around in his mouth like a too-hot bite of food, but no matter how quickly he darts his tongue around it still ends up burnt.

Well.

“Can we go for a walk today?”

Credence’s voice takes him by surprise, and when he finally registers the words he’d spoken, the question does as well. He swallows hard against a suddenly dry mouth. 

“Sure.” He can give him one last good day, one day to walk through Central Park like they used to, eat pizza slices from the cart by the gates, point out every dog they pass by. 

“Maybe we can bring Modesty.”

_Are you fucking crazy?_ Graves wants to say. Instead, he says, “Maybe next time. Let’s just go the two of us, today.”

There’s a little smile on Credence’s lips, as if he’s actually dumb enough to believe that Graves wants to spend _more_ time alone with him, more than the constant surveillance and care he’s already knee-deep in. “Okay. I’ll go get changed.”

Graves watches him retreat into the bedroom, not shutting the door behind him. A learned behaviour. No more closed doors. Not when baby tries to kill himself.

It’s freezing in the park, mid-February snow floating aimlessly through the air, nondirectional, sticking to Credence’s hat and the shoulders of his coat. Graves has one arm around his waist, keeping him close.

“Remember the first time we came here?”

Credence smiles up at him. “A few days after my birthday. It was snowing then, too.”

Graves nods. “And you slipped on the ice.”

Credence laughs quietly. “I slipped on the ice,” he agrees. “Because I wanted to go skating.”

“You’re generally supposed to wear skates,” Graves teases. They’re walking by the rink now, which is oddly quiet — it’s usually packed with tourists and New Yorkers alike this time of year. So close to Valentine’s day. On a whim, he stops walking and turns to Credence. “You wanna go skating?”

Credence squints at him. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Okay.”

They rent skates at the booth and Graves kneels in front of Credence, tying his up tight before he gets his own on. Credence taps the blades against the concrete walkway. “I’ve never gone skating before.”

“Never?” Graves figures he shouldn’t be surprised. As if Credence’s mother would have taken him ice skating. “I should have taken you sooner.”

Credence smiles warmly, his cheeks pink with the cold, snow-flecked hair falling into his eyes. “You’re taking me now.”

Graves guides him out onto the rink. Credence clutches his arm tight with two mitten-clad hands, unsteady on his feet. Graves isn’t exactly an Olympic skater, but he can generally manage to stay upright, and he starts moving forward in slow strides, essentially dragging Credence with him.

He spins so he’s going backward, facing the nervous boy, holding his hands, coaxing him forward. “Keep your body leaned forward just a bit,” he instructs him, “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

Slowly, he lets go of Credence’s hands, and the boy wobbles a bit before catching his balance and managing to take a few slides forward. A group of teenagers whips past them and Credence clutches for Graves’ arm again. Graves laughs.

“You’ve got it, baby. C’mon.”

He slips back to Credence’s side and holds his hand, urging him forward with his own smooth movements. It takes ten minutes but Credence gets the hang of it, and soon enough they’re matching each other’s stride, rolling smoothly along the outer edge of the rink. 

Credence is laughing after narrowly avoiding tripping over a fallen twig and Graves watches him, his weak and tired heart fucking with his head. After everything that’s happened, Credence is still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. The softness hasn’t left his face; the sweetness hasn’t left his laugh. Graves’ chest aches when he looks at him, because he knows it isn’t the same, he _knows_ this isn’t Credence, at least not the Credence he met nearly five years ago — but his slowly breaking heart can’t stop trying to shape him back into that.

Graves stops talking. If Credence notices, he doesn’t comment, because he’s rambling enough for both of them, about all their previous trips to Central Park, about the time they brought Modesty to the zoo, stories that feel like they’re from another life.

It’s been six months of reminiscing. Six months of talking about the past, not the future. Never the future. Graves can’t construct one in his mind, no matter how hard he tries. And it hurts to admit that they have nothing to talk about anymore. Nothing but memories and things they used to do, ways they used to feel.

The drive home is quiet, save for the radio humming out a soft undercurrent, so low it’s unrecognizable.

Credence kisses him in the kitchen. Barefoot, hair damp from melted snow. His lips sweet from the hot cocoa Graves bought for him at the stand by the rink. The kiss feels desperate, like an appeal. Like a plea.

Graves goes into the living room to hang his coat. And then he stands in the center of the room and stares at Credence, still standing where he’d left him in the kitchen, eyes cast to the floor, breathing slowly through his mouth. Like he’s trying not to cry. The little ghost of the boy he’s loved for five years. A shadow of who he might have been.

“I love you,” Graves says, and it isn’t intentional, it just comes pouring out of him. “I love you so much, Credence.”

And he does. He loves him from the top of his damp head to his cold, pink toes; from his brilliant talent to his incessantly dumb questions; from his uncontainable joy that pours out of him when he laughs to his deepest misery, unconscious in a red-fog bathtub. Graves loves his shining eyes and his skinny hips, his neat handwriting and his messy eating habits, the face he makes when he’s about to come and the face he makes when he’s about to cry, his voice and his silence, his anger and his fear, his determination and his defeat.

When Credence looks up, his eyes are red and watery. He doesn’t speak.

Graves stands in the living room and he stares. Credence stands in the kitchen and he stares right back. The weight of every angry word, every sobbed-out promise, every declaration of love lifts slowly from where it blankets them, up, up, until it breaks through the ceiling and into the sky. Until the air in the room is empty. Until everything else disappears. Until all that’s left between them is the countertop, an unspeakable sorrow, and a blue orchid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, i'm so sorry.
> 
> i truly appreciate every comment and message i've received about this story. i'm glad it's had such an impact on some people. there will be more. <3
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr!](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


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